


elegeia

by Itar94



Series: the ghost and the raven [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - Daemons, BAMF John Sheppard, BAMF Ronon, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Remix, Episode: s02e03 Runner, Episode: s03e04 Sateda, First Meetings, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character Death(s), POV Outsider, Runner, Running, Sateda, Satedan Culture, Siege of Sateda, Team Dynamics, War of Sateda, Wraith, tw: some blood and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6555634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The choice of soldiering hadn’t been Ronon’s first dream.<br/><i>(an end and a beginning.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the choice of soldiering hadn’t been Ronon’s first dream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-04-15) This is part of the "the ghost and the raven"-verse, but I think it can be read on its own too. It's basically SGA with Daemons. Rated M for sometimes rather explicit violence. This draws to an extent on S03E04 "Sateda" and S02E03 "Runner".  
> (2016-06-28) Edited for some spelling, continuity and grammatical errors.  
> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

# elegeia

 **i.** **  
**

# prologue

_the choice of soldiering hadn’t been Ronon’s first dream._

* * *

**Planet designated 0-E19 (presence of Wraith: confirmed) · Pegasus**  
**Year 599 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 1995 (Terran time)**

* * *

Snow crunching beneath their boots, they’ve fanned out in a circle, moving from the Ancestral Ring steadily. Intel is rarely wholly accurate, and they cannot fully trust it. They cannot trust anything but each other and themselves, the swords on their backs and the guns in their holsters; their kit, the Team, and their Animae. The list is painfully brief, but it’s simply the way things are.

Their task is straightforward: infiltrate, find a weak spot, plant the charges; double back, wait for the explosion. Preferably without being seen or heard, but they’re more than ready to fight hand–to–hand if they have to. In fact, Ronon’s blood is singing with the desire to do so, even though his heartbeat is rapid, and this rush cannot hold up forever, overriding the fear, the anxiety. This is enemy territory. There is no guarantee that any of them will make it back.

A few years ago, he might’ve considered this the coward’s way: to sneak behind enemy lines, silently, like ghosts. But war cannot all be fought face-to-face, a reality which has by now been drilled into his core. There’s more to war than pure bullets.

Melena is prowling slightly ahead, as far as their Bond lets her; seeking the trail, the landmarks which the intel, relied by the recon team, suggested. But that was two weeks ago, and the snow wasn’t falling this thick and fast then, obscuring their vision and hiding the Wraith base under a sheen layer of pristine white.

This world is covered with trees, which makes for a good cover. It’s two and a half miles to the base. It’s probably not heavily guarded, because Wraith rarely do that: they don’t care, in their arrogance, they never think they might be attacked on  _their_  doorstep. Never expect it.

That’s what gives them the edge.

The receiver, wires hidden beneath the layers of his coat and plated armor, crackles to life. The range of it is limited, but the members of Strike Team Seven are vividly aware of it, and know not to stray too far or leave formation.  _“Status report,”_  is the demand. Specialist Marika’s voice is distorted and raspy through the tiny speaker.

Ronon reaches up and presses the button of the receiver, answering:  _“All’s clear here. Over.”_  – echoed by Recruits Hemí and Sincha:  _“Nothing yet; no sight of the Wraith. Over.”_

It’s a quiet morning. They’d have prefer to do this under the cover of darkness, but this hemisphere of the planet is stuck in a perpetual state of everlight, the sun never setting in full nor rising to its zenith. But they can’t wait; a day, a moonturn, a year from now, the Wraith may decide to emerge from this place, and they need to move while the intel is still fresh.

 _“Hey, Dex,”_  muses Sincha, as he often does – unable to keep silent for long, unless there’s a strictly expressed receiver–silence (and struggling even then). ” _Remember that beer you promised me?”_

 _Never shutting up about that,_  Melena remarks over the Bond; she does not need a receiver to sense Ronon’s resignation.  _All over a dice._

A sigh – they can practically hear Hemí’s roll of eyes:  _“You two still arguing about that bet?”_

 _“Focus,”_ Marika barks. _“We’ve got a mission to complete, and everything else can wait, or I’ll have a chat with Task Master Kell about reassignment.”_

That warning is enough for Sincha to quieten. Ronon presses the receive-only button on the receiver, so that he can hear their messages but they will not be bothered by the quiet steps of his feet.

They’re approaching the base from three points. The burden on Ronon’s back is heavy and dangerous: he’s not an explosive expert, not by a long shot, but it was part of basic training at the Military Academia, just as much as shooting at targets and running laps was. He knows enough to connect the final wire and light it up. Now he’s carrying enough in the weight of detonators in the bag slung over his shoulder to level a building, if well placed; which is why they’d split up –  _Maximal efficiency,_ Task Hand Jun would say, _is what matters._

While Marika approaches eastward with her Anima, Hemi and Sincha go in from the north – when planning and deciding to split up like this, Ronon hadn’t blinked when being tasked to go himself – only Melena to guide. He is, as Task Master Kell had announced (causing pride to sting: Kell is often harsh and unforgiving), one of the best trackers and hunters the Academia had even produced. He can do this. Sincha, on the other hand, cannot be trusted with an explosive device on his own, which is why Hemí had opted to go with him.

Hemí is steadfast and trustable; he doesn’t get grossly drunk  _every_  night on leave.

* * *

The choice of soldiering hadn’t been Ronon’s first dream.

He had wanted to be a poet; spent hours by the desk, studying literature and long-lost words echoed in the old Odes and Songs, whispers of the Early Wars and the Ancestors. He’d composed some lyrics of his own and been so proud at twelve, winning the class faire, and the professors had expressed delight at his excellence, his proficiency. They weren’t fooled by his often silent façade, his lack of loud laughter – few people dare be too loud with the overhanging shadow of the Wraith constantly looming. Even if the Chieftain proclaims, proudly, that they will find a way to defeat them forever. Even if the Chieftain makes promises of freedom and survival and just liberty and equality for all.

In the written words, there his talents truly showed.  _Destined for greatness,_ Ronon wishes to remember the professors saying, though he doesn’t think they actually did. For what is greatness but some illusionary grandeur?

The only thing anyone can be certain of is their destiny to die.

But the ever–raging war against the Wraith had changed the dreams; when his mother died in service when Ronon was fifteen, he’d followed, aimed for the Military Academia instead, determined to honor her memory. To become part of the Forces. To embrace the sword. It was easy, easier than it should have been, to be admitted, to slot into place.

Stories were and are widespread in the ranks and the instructors had recognized his name; and there were murmurs of Chief Specialist Garen Dex – they’d called her and her Anima  _death on legs_ ;

“Wraith never know what hit ‘em,” Task Hand Jun had said once, sharing a few ales before Ronon’s first deployment. Twenty–one, fresh–faced and eager and afraid but refusing to show it, he’d heard so many stories, so much to live up to:  _her specialty was the sword, and with it she’d cut off the heads of countless Wraith_ –

“Saved my life, she did, on Tiinum – how we got off that blasted desert planet, by the Moons, I’ll never know. I still owe her for that,” Jun would recall, fondly. Part of Ronon – it’s never been confirmed but he suspects it – wonders if Jun’s fondness of him, his constant encouragements and help that could almost be seen as favoring, roots from just that. His mother is dead and Jun can’t repay that debt directly, but he can do it by giving the son a chance. “Be proud, Ronon, be proud to be of the same blood.”

The next night, Ronon had walked through the Ancestral Ring for the first time in his life, alongside his squad, the conversation still burning fresh and intense in his memory. Melena had roared: they were going to do this, and prevail:  _be as strong as Chief Specialist Garen Dex._

They lose two people of the team that year.

They learn quickly how to dig graves.

* * *

Up ahead, Melena growls softly: her tail flickers, impatiently, her slender, strong body twisting slightly to glance back at him. They’re close. The double prints from their steps are already starting to disappear beneath the fresh layer of snow.

The trees are giving way to a shadow–like structure, powering upward like a miniature mountain and it could almost be mistaken as such – a hill, slightly oddly formed, carved out of the landscape. Pulling down his collar slightly, Ronon inhales, exhales, tasting the air: sharp, billowing frost in front of his mouth. “Reckon this is it?”

There’s no mistaking that stench. Not too strong, but yet there: a lingering cloud of dread and death and rotting corpses. It’s the unmistakable smell of Wraith – ingrained in Ronon’s memory ever since his first offworld op, his first time seeing them up close. Now it’s seeping from the walls of the installation in a steady flow, wisps of it crossing the wind to be carried away into nothingness.

The Wraith aren’t at all like the stories. They’re worse because they’re  **real** , not just shadows meant to frighten children into submission and obedience. They’re real.

Now, the hill rising in front of them is more like a cliff wall: heavy, looming, dark, and mostly vertical. Melena prowls along its side, Ronon following, weapon held aloft – sometimes, there are traps, but mostly there aren’t. The Wraith are careless, this way, never expecting company. Eventually, after some time of searching, they find a crevice and Ronon has to pry it apart with his knife, fingers already stiff with cold despite the thick gloves, but there’s definitely an opening. Not a mountain at all, but a building, almost melted into the surrounding woods. A traveler stumbling on it would never know it was there.

For once intel was accurate. Peering within, they see a corridor, covered in the perpetual darkness of a Wraith base. It’s so silent they barely dare to breathe. Taking point, Ronon creeps inside – they needn’t go far. The layout of the inside is fairly unknown, but most Wraith bases look very much the same. They don’t need to reach the heart of the machine, but the deeper inside, the better the effect of the explosive.

No guards, no movement.

This is the fifth one he’s infiltrated like this. Finding a suitable, empty corridor, he shrugs off the bag and makes swift work of arranging it in a crevasse. Gently pulls out the necessary wires to connect them, while Melena relentlessly keeps watch. This is the most nerve–wracking part, but he breathes deeply, wills his hands to be entirely steady as he clamps the cords together and seals the shell of the device. It’s a crude arrangement, but effective, and once begun the process cannot be stopped – but the scientist back on Sateda have figured out ways to delay explosions with timers, and an hour will be enough to get out of here: they cannot risk more time, cannot risk the device being found by the Wraith.

Pressing the button of the receiver, he lowers his voice, to not let the echoes stir whatever might be sleeping deeper inside. “Dex to Marika. We’re in. Planting charges now.”

_“Copy that. Hemí, status report.”_

_“Nearly there. Had to take a shortcut; Sincha is a big klutz, we nearly lost the device …”_

_“Hey, it’s not my fault there was a branch where –”_

Hemí clears his throat.  _”Eleven minutes, tops – I can see it now. Yeah.”_

 _“Get it done,”_  Marika cuts in. _“Dex, finish setting up and get yourself out of there. I’m entering now. Rendezvous by the Ring in thirty minutes; if we’re not back before that, return to Base. Marika out.”_

The transmission dissolves into nothing, and Ronon silences it completely; he’s not interested in hearing Sincha and Hemí bicker, and doesn’t want to risk any more noise until he’s well outside the base.

It’s a relief to get out of there and they still haven’t run into a single Wraith, seen not a single shadow and something prickles down Ronon’s spine – a vague sense – it’s too easy.

But has been so before – especially in the beginning, the first ops, the people of Sateda using the Ancestral Ring in defensive purposes and not just for trade with allied worlds, half a decade ago. The Wraith are still uncertain and confused and never know where next the strike will come.

Outside, they are greeted by the harsh cold wind of the snows eternally falling and Ronon manages to maneuver the door shut. Soon enough the billowing snow will hide it again, though perhaps not before the place is flooded with explosions. Turning on the receiver again, there’s mostly silence except for Sincha eventually reporting:  _”All done and no fuckups, I swear by the Third.”_

The trek back is all too slow, and Ronon’s nerves are singing, still, for some reason refusing to settle.

It’s so quiet. Too quiet, as if the forest itself is holding its breath – _it’s too easy,_ he thinks, and Melena cannot soothe him because she feels it just as strongly, if not more:  _Yes_ , she whispers. Glances back for them. Their tracks are disappearing, and through the shroud of white the enemy base can no longer be seen.

Nothing following.

Marika hasn’t reported in yet, and she’s the Specialist and Team leader, her orders are those which stand above the rest. Entering now – she doesn’t want to be interrupted by a worried call, and time’s not up yet. Restlessly, they move onward, away from the base, nearing the Ancestral Ring in a wide careful arc, just in case something follows – but there’s nothing.

Intel suggested the base was more than a hiding place for the Wraith. The spies had recognized the design well enough: it is a food supply, a cold storage in the literal sense of the word.

How many humans and Animae are trapped in there, frozen in stasis so they could be devoured later?

This isn’t a rescue mission; there are nowhere enough resources for that. There never is. Yet, Ronon can’t help but wonder if – _if_ there was ever a chance; these humans and Animae, they’re strangers, from planets perhaps far from the scope of the Satedan sky. Who’s out there, waiting for them? Praying for them? But this isn’t the time for such thoughts (there never is time) – everyone knows that once taken by the Wraith, there’s no return.

At least the explosion will be quick. Compared to the death at the hands of the Wraith, it will be a mercy.

* * *

Hemí and Sincha are already by the Ancestral Ring, the latter in a silent, vivid discussion with his Anima, while Hemí is peering down the barrel of his gun; and Ronon prides himself being swift, evasive, quiet, and smirks inwardly as he accomplishes stepping closer and closer, until he’s almost right beside the men. Then Hemí swirls around sharply, flinches –

“By the Moons, Dex! Nearly frightened the heart out of me.”

“Need to work on your guard,” Ronon says, unapologetically. These conditions are poor for such works, vision limited by the swirling snow and sounds easily drowned by the chilly wind; however, that is no excuse. A solider must always be alert.

“Heard from Marika yet?”

Ronon shakes his head. Sincha mutters, “Probably just adding some finishing touches. You know how she is with her explosions. Bigger the better. How she made Specialist, remember.”

“Yeah,” Hemí says, nearly chuckles, “nearly blew Kell himself up with that stunt.”

The unsaid remains: if the Task Master had died on that op, there’s no way Marika would’ve been promoted. She’d still been with the Planetary Forces, though, probably, because they always need people to do the gritty, tough jobs and she’s got no problems with getting her hands dirty. Tasked as their Team leader, she’s taught Ronon a trick or two how to disarm an opponent also without a knife or gun – if nothing else, it’s useful getting out of a drunken brawl.

They wait, and Hemí’s gaze strays to the sky as if seeking the planet’s suns but the clouds are too thick to pinpoint any exact locations. Instead they must rely on their internal clocks, which are finely tuned, as a warrior’s should be.

* * *

“Thirty minutes,” Sincha announces, as much as his chattering teeth allows him. his thickly glover hands are resting on his gun, aimed toward the swirling shadows of the wind. In this heavy snowfall, the enemy could sneak up far too easily on them. “Time’s up.”

Time’s up and she hasn’t returned. Marika’s orders were clear: whether or not she and her Anima were to make it, the rest of them were to go back to Sateda. The adrenaline rush is over, now, and Ronon has paced circles around the Ancestral Dialing Device to keep warm; restlessly, and Melena stares into the woods for prey or beast.

Nothing.

Sincha is shivering with cold, probably longing heartily to have that beer in a cozy warm tavern, but says: “Let’s give it another five.”

“We’ve got orders,” Hemí says, sharply. His Anima is in high alert, ready to go, half–sunken into the snow.

And then the receiver sparkles to life:  _“Squad, retreat through the Ring: repeat, retreat through the Ring **now**!”_

There’s the echo of blasterfire, and the cold is suddenly forgotten; Ronon hefts his gun, checks the ammo – still full and waiting to be used, not a single shot fired since they got here. An emotion like a song starts to vibrate from within the center of his chest: wild, a flame. The anticipation of a fight.  _“We’re pinned down by the south exit, there’s a dozen of –”_

Static, sudden, replaced by dead silence. As if the receiver’s been damaged. Hit by the fire of a Wraith stunner, or worse.

“Marika?” Hemí shouts. “Marika!”

No response.

Sincha’s sullen expression hardens. “Fuck.”

Ronon draws his sword, and Hemí glares at him. “Dex –”

“You gonna try to stop me?”

After Marika, the oldest highest ranking officer is Second Recruit Hemí. But they’ve been together as a Team ever since the Academia, Sincha joining them last, over a year ago: they’ve always stuck together, through the thick and thin, including that nightmare on Yaleem – two weeks in a cave, no food, no extra ammo, no back–up, evading the enemy crawling atop the hillside: a recon gone south. They’d made it through and never left anyone behind.

Ronon doesn’t want to start counting the days now. Without changing a look with Melena, both start to move forward. Hemí protests: “Dex! We’ve got orders! And the detonators will go off in less than half an hour!”

And Ronon smirks toothily beneath the protective collar: “Then we’ll just have to be faster than that.”

Sincha doesn’t try to stop him, nor does Hemí make a move; they just stare after his and Melena’s forms as they quickly disappear through the storm, and faintly he can hear Sincha remark: “He’s always been a loose cannon – it’s probably in the family blood.”

Then the snows take them.


	2. war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the wound on his shoulder hasn’t healed, and fevers have shaken him for days. of all the ways he’d thought he’d die, this was not one of them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**ii.**   **  
**

# war

 _the wound on his shoulder hasn’t healed, and fevers have shaken him for days.  
of all the ways he’d thought he’d die, this was not one of them._

* * *

**Atteria · Pegasus**  
**Year 604 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 2000 (Terran time)**

* * *

Thirst is clawing through his throat like a scatter of knives.

Oh, he still dreams sometimes of the warm welcoming embrace of the tavern he and the squad used to visit off–duty, the  _Swordsman’s_ , of indulging in the sparse comforts before the war had come to their doorstep too and wiped everything away. Now such dreams are both a comfort and a curse.

Most of the time, Ronon doesn’t dream. There isn’t time.

He can’t remember how many times he’s stepped through the Ancestral Ring, emerging to new scenery, and never has he had the time to do more than quickly move on; a rapid recon, finding shelter for a few hours. Hunting for food among wildlife is safer, doesn’t draw attention, but it also takes time – stalking is the work of a patient man, and though Ronon can claim to possess that quality, his hunters often do not.

The Hunters.

They are the hunted now, he and Melena. They are the prey constantly waiting for the arrow to strike. His throat is hoarse from disuse: rarely does he make a sound aloud anymore. Across the Bond, they can communicate and keep watch and comfort each other, and this silent way of being is the only thing he can be certain of anymore. Ever since the Wraith took him, took everything away and put a piece of their machinery in his back, planting it near his spine – the pain still searing: he’s tried cutting it out with a shard of glass, but cannot reach – woken bloody and dizzied, face-down on the damp mossy floor of an unnamed forest; failing, each time, to make himself free.

All they can do is run and keep running.

This world is like many others: it is reaching the barrenness of winter, most trees already having lost its leaves. And weaving a path through the shadows of the woods, they find a broad rough road – used by many feet, and perhaps caravans of traders: and the realization is both a relief, and horrible in of itself.

This is an inhabited world.

Fires ahead: people. Movement. The steady churn of voices, and the scent of food over the glow of a hearth, sends him nearly reeling. Water – food–

And his blood is pulsing so loudly: the wound on his shoulder hasn’t healed, and fevers have shaken him for days. Of all the ways he’d thought he’d die, this was not one of them. He does not want to die.

(Sateda is gone. All of this memories now only live in his heart and in Melena’s voice and the softness of sleep, rarely: all else of Sateda is gone, turned to ashes by the fire from the Wraith, and the burning silhouette of the Capital alight and crumbling was the last thing Ronon saw before the Screamer Ships took them.)

Before, he might have been able to observe the settlement more closely before choosing to approach. Now he stumbles forward, clenching the particle magnum – liberated from a stranger on an undesignated planet six Satedan moonturns earlier (though that way of counting time no longer matters),  _a corpse does not need a weapon to defend itself_ – Ronon has no idea who the woman was, lying there alongside a few dead companions, fed upon.

He’s not a man to waste resources. The few items he own, now, are carried with him closely and always. There is never time to relax, to close his eyes –

But stumbling forward, the ground rushing to meet him, he welcomes the darkness like a spell, trying to resist for a moment and there are voices, shouts; the people of the village approach, curious or panicked or afraid he doesn’t know, and Melena sinks down next to him:  _I’m here –_  if they die now, claimed by the fever at all, at least it will be Together. 

* * *

Vision blurredly swims into focus. There’s brightness, the yellow glow of fire – no, an oil lamp of some sort, held aloft. The inside of a structure – a tent? yes; lined with the furs of whatever beasts are commonplace on this world. It’s warm, and soft, and there’s an inkling of safety which Ronon hasn’t felt for years. Can’t almost remember. It’s not wholesome, just an edge, and it makes him nervous. Hand twitching, the first thing he realizes next is that he’s half-naked and his gun is no longer resting in his hand.

Someone has wrapped a clean cloth around his forearm, hiding the deep cut there. The furs and lined pressed against his back are unfamiliar, and makes his body want to relax, to sleep more.

Something moves; Melena springs to her feet, taking up a protective stance, teeth baring – but it is no Wraith. The woman entering the tent startles, nearly dropping the bowl in her hand. Rushes forward.  Ronon, adrenaline rushing into his blood singingly, gropes for his things – a lump discarded on the wooden table next to the mattress; his coat, belt, small pack. The gun, he finds at last, and whips the particle magnum to aim and his finger is on the trigger, ready;

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” the woman says. She sounds nervous, but not so afraid as to run screaming from the tent. Her Anima, close in shape to a canine also found on Sateda, narrows its eyes at them as if judging whether they are foes or possible friends.

It takes a moment to form words, to remember how to.

“Where am I?”

“You are in my father’s dwelling. Keturah is the Chief of this village,” she says. Approaches carefully, in the manner one nears a wounded panicked animal. As if he would bolt – and he could. He could, detachedly, cut her down, and flee for the Ancestral Ring hurriedly. But he lowers the gun, without releasing his grip of it, and Melena backs away enough for the woman to near the cot.

They haven’t been this close any living thing for far too long. Since Sateda.

Emotion curls up within him; he has to swallow, stare at the ground. All things boil down to Sateda sooner or later. But he will not show weakness or grief before this stranger. Steeling his resolve, he glances up again to find the woman is offering something. The bowl, from which a spicy scent is rising.

“Some stew. You must be hungry. Please, eat.”

There must be a price – there always is. He has no coin or other means of payment, and he has no intention to be robbed. Seeing his hesitation, the woman presses on: “It’s  _banau_ ; it’s safe to eat.” A common game across these parts of the stars. “Please, eat.”

Eventually he accepts the bowl, takes a distrustful sip. Warmth sips into his belly and starts to spread outward, through his bones. He almost chokes on it – hunger takes him rapidly, then, and soon it’s all gone. The woman, watching carefully, smiles slightly. “Would you like some more?”

* * *

Three servings later, which he might regret because of the spices, Ronon feels much more awake and clearheaded. Melena is curled up in front of the oil lamp, soaking in the light. The woman has introduced herself as Kalah, Keturah’s daughter, and this world is apparently called Attaria. They trade with others, mainly Balkan for grain, but otherwise they are a small community, isolated, and rather wary of strangers; there had been a minor uproar, she says, at his arrival, as he’d come with the dusk and stumbled into the village covered in blood and deliriously murmuring words no one could understand.

“The healers had to sew your wound,” Kalah says, “but they say it will scar.”

Scars don’t bother him. He says, words so strange: “Thank you.”

Charity like this is rare, so fresh and part of him wants to break down and weep. But the larger, stranger part of him will remain as detached as possible. Better for everyone if he does. Soon he has to leave. He has been asleep for too long, and sooner or later the Wraith always find him.

 _The village._  Oh, he must leave, now, now, before the Wraith come and find the human village; this is the goal of their game, all along, to trace his steps, not to kill him but to bring ruin upon the worlds in his path;

Kalah looks young – twenty summers, perhaps, but twenty harsh summers, for her face is gaunt, and eyes hollow in the way of innocent childhoods being overtaken by nightmares – and still so trustful, so unaware, and when Ronon begins to stand she asks him to lay down again, to rest – “You have not yet healed, you are still feverish.”

“I have to go,” he says. Insists.

“We can offer you shelter until your wounds have –”

“No, I must go, now,” he says. Tiredly. How could they understand? “Thank you for all that you’ve done.” He dresses, quickly, puts on his belt and pretends not to notice his shivering hands. Pockets some of the sweet–breads that had been offered along with the stew.

“I don’t understand,” the woman says, her Anima restless: “We do not even know your name, stranger.”

His name. What does it matter?

The Wraith care not for names – all he is now is a Runner.

_Hunted._

Instead he turns to her, and says: “Thank you, for everything. But the longer I stay the more I risk everyone in this village.” Everyone of this world. 

* * *

And Kalah does not try to stop him as he and Melena walk away, and they stride through the village purposefully, and no one attempts to halt them, though there are curious mutters and the occasional shout. From his peripheral vision Ronon seen an old man, carrying a bone-adorned staff, approaching the woman who had fed him – the father and Chieftain, Keturah, perhaps; there is a tense agitation to his Anima’s movements.

 _Wary of strangers,_  Kalah had said. Perhaps her goodwill was not shared amongst the others. All the more reason to leave.

 _No place is safe._  

* * *

And they are leaving the village behind them, half–way to the Ancestral Ring, only the faint glow from the particle magnum power cell lighting the way, when the haunting echo begins:

a Screamer Ship.

Instinct and training, spine-deep, take over. Imprinted on his every nerve: the remaining fever is forgotten; aiming his gun upward, he dives into the cover of the undergrowth, abandoning the open path. Searches the skies. There: cleaving it are two shapes. They pass in a circle, missing him narrowly.

They are heading toward the settlement.

A beam of blue light dissolves, leaving three bodies behind – the Wraith, two of which are warrior–class, drones, masked. The hunters. Melena growls:  _Three. We can take them._ The Screamer Ships continue onward, no doubt to place one or two more teams of hunters elsewhere, so to cover more ground quicker.

They never sweep them up and make it easy, never finish it. No. They keep the game alive for as long as they can. Ronon knows they won’t stop hunting until he and Melena drop dead out of sheer exhaustion.

The Ancestral Ring is less than half a mile from here; they can make it there. Take out those three, and run, run the rest of the way: rested and with food in his belly, he is sharper than he has been for weeks, and now he crouches in the bushes, feeling more ready, stronger, than for far too long. Inhales, exhales, to level out his heartbeats. Calm precision is necessary – he has recovered enough strength to dance.

He draws his sword, and together he and Melena lunge forward:

* * *

Necks are breakable and the filthy heads of Wraith easy to cut off. Heavy swipes. They don’t see it coming. A stun bolt shoots past his ear hotly, narrowly missing, and he doesn’t flinch or blink. Instead: ducks, swirls, dances. Wraith don’t use swords or anything the like, relying only on their long–range weapons and feeding hands, so that’s what he makes sure to aim for: to sever wrist, throats, arteries.

If there is time, he sometimes finds a branch or stick, like a pike, and mounts a severed head or two, like a trophy. Something at least to say, to mock the Wraith:  _You won’t catch us._

Not this time.

This time Melena tears the first Wraith apart before it can react, blood spurting onto the ground and was the night less dark they would’ve seen the splatters on the ground. A body falls heavily – two – three and then, in the silence, they breathe.

It’s over in less than two minutes.

 _The Ring. They have to move to the Ring. Get away from here._  

* * *

The settlement is doomed to be Culled. There’s nothing to be done, now, and Ronon can’t help but wonder – if he’d been a bit quicker, woken earlier, if he hadn’t accepted the offer of food; if he had dialed another world, walked into a snowstorm instead –

_(will Kalah and her father survive? will there be enough people left for them to dare continue living here, or will they burn the village and move elsewhere?_

_will they flee to some perceived haven_  
_and never be seen again?)_

 _Everyone is Culled sooner or later,_  Melena says. It is no comfort. What false words would she say, anyway? She is the embodiment of his Soul, and Souls don’t lie. _It’s the reality of things._

Comfort doesn’t exist.

They move on.

* * *

This world is quiet, without human voices. The sand, sharply contrasting, is hot and raw, and the two sons are near their zenith in the sky. No humans live here. It’s just as well. Their footsteps are laid clear here, and they can’t linger for too long – nothing grows here. No apparent sources of water.

For a moment Ronon stands there, though, shedding his heavy leather coat, feels the harsh suns bearing down on them: blending with the dry desert, this barren wasteland where nothing lives. He finds it mirrors so beautifully what he has nightmares of what Sateda looks like now: the smoke settling, the buildings crumbled, the vast fields outside the Capitol no longer rich and green and red with grain: the laughter of children silenced: the Library burning. Nothing remaining, just dust and ashes.

(He imagines tracing words in the sands, or singing them aloud, words that might have mattered. The poetry he had dreamed of as a youngster, casting admiration in his mother’s eyes; _I want to be one of the great poets, one of those that are remembered for generations. I want to be the next Aram Hakum, the one who had written the Ode when Sateda was brought together to peace by the Great Unification. I want my poetry to be considered among the Masters’. I want to be_   _remembered.)_

Then he turns to the Ancestral dialing device, pushes the symbols in a random order – there are no known allies he can travel to, but he knows plenty of old enemy bases, planets where he and other Strike Teams were sent a lifetime ago in the vain hope that the step–by–step sabotage would lead to freedom.

(was this what Kell and the Chieftain and Jun had envisioned as they sent their people to the fruitless war? had they predicted the falling bombs: not a Culling but annihilation? had they foreseen the slaughterhouse?)

 _Where to?_  Melena asks.

Snow. After the burning fires, he longs for snow.

He has stopped counting times, stopped measuring the days in terms of moonturns and years, but thinks that by now winter will have laid its thick blanket on this nameless world which they’d only given a numeric designation. The Wraith base there was probably one of their Great Ships, and it was destroyed in an explosion half a decade ago.

No humans live there. And if there are Wraith there, they will taste his sword and his gun and the anger coiling through his veins. He is as strong as Specialist Garen Dex was, now, he thinks. He has killed as many Wraith as she did before she died. Would she be proud of him? Would Task Hand Jun be proud of him?

(Sincha would be calling him a madman and laugh, surely, surely wonder how he did it, how he managed to continue to breathe; and Ara, she would wryly murmur,  _Courageous and stubborn_  –  _no wonder Kell keeps reassigning you_  –  _of course you would remain alive longest of us all._ )

Then the shimmering blue surface of the Ancestral Ring folds outward out of nothing, stabilizing into a shivering water-like wall.

They step into it without hesitating.


	3. proclamation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the explosion splits the installation apart and sinks it to the ground_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**iii.**   **  
**

# proclamation

_the explosion splits the installation apart and sinks it to the ground._

* * *

**Planet designated 0 -E19 (presence of Wraith: confirmed) · Pegasus**  
**Year 599 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 1995 (Terran time)**

* * *

The bombs will go off in twenty–four minutes and turn the base to dust.

Ronon rushes through the woods like the wind itself, defeating the snow determinedly: Melena easily keeps up, having less of a hard time moving through the landscape. They’ve tried, still running, to contact Marika but there’s nothing – either they’re captured or dead, or the equipment is malfunctioning, cutting off contact.

He doesn’t want to declare truths, doesn’t want to admit defeat until he’s seen the unmoving bodies. They continue the pursuit.

* * *

Strike Teams usually consist of at least four members, though sometimes it varies, reaches to five or six or seven with different modes of specialty. Sometimes new Recruits are brought in to fill empty spots, and they shouldn’t be ready for it, going from simulations to live rounds – though training often involved real bullets and true energy blasts and sharp swords. Ronon has a small assortment of scars and bruises collected during that time, in accidents to be learned from.

Task Master Kell had a very rough, sharp voice, and he is the one man Ronon can claim to be actually afraid of. The steel there, burdened by the fight against the Wraith and charred memories; it made Kell a very dangerous man. Mostly, he’d stand apart, above, watching them wrestle in the dirt, yell  _Time! Time!_  as they ran laps; but some were chosen to face him in sparring, hand–to–hand, sword–to–sword …

Ronon can still taste that day, if he concentrates. It’d recently rained, and the ground was slightly slippery, and the sweat had mingled with the sharp scent of blood, rising. Kell might look like a greying man with withering arms, but in truth he’s strong, he’s  _fast_. It was a lesson hard-learned and hard-earned, but after, once approved, a warrior would feel prouder than ever; and Ronon is glad he didn’t lose an ear or a hand, as some few unluckier ones have done. The scar across his back is one he can carry with honor.

The first Satedan promise: _We are honorable warriors; failure means death._

 _We won’t fail,_  Ronon swears: an oath.

* * *

It’s not dark and silent anymore. The corridor is blazing with bursts of fire: Wraith stunners, chasing a solitary figure and her Anima, pressing them down another corridor, deeper into the ship. Cutting them off from the route of escape. Holding them off for now but not for much longer.

Ronon and Melena burst into the base like a raging storm, efficiently downing one Wraith drone, and another, and another, by gun and by claws and teeth. Melena is on them, ferociously, and emerges victoriously covered in blood and gleaming with proud anger.

The op is not so secret now.

Finding the corner where Marika and her Anima are trapped is easy because that is the only source of sound, now, beside their heavy breaths and the occasional groan of organic machinery – the bastardized technology that Wraith use, half–alive in of itself. Gun held aloft in one hand, Ronon uses the other to brandish his sword.

The Wraith have their backs turns. Only focusing on the human already trapped: not counting on backup. One, two, three drops easily until they turn, surprised, and begin shooting in their direction too.

They make quick work of it. Time is running short – less than fifteen minutes, ten. Then it doesn’t matter if they win or lose this skirmish.

As they cut down the Enemy, Marika shouts a smile, resigned: “I gave an order, Recruit!”

“You didn’t answer comms,” he answers; moves onward, brings down one Wraith, another. Together, the four of them clear a path, and they break into a run toward the entrance. As they do, bolts of blue fire following, Marika lifts her hand so they can see: the receiver itself is undamaged, but the tangle of wires reaching inside her uniform jacket to the power cells resting there has been severed. Not cleanly as if cut by a knife, but torn by force and movement. “Couldn’t raise you.”

There are always standing orders, regardless. If this stunt will get him demoted, Ronon will bear the reprimand with pride, knowing he did it for his team.

Any squadmember would understand.

* * *

The explosion splits the installation apart and sinks it to the ground. Smoke rises, darkly, toward the skies. The air tastes burned and ashen like death itself. It is the smell of victory. Ronon rolls over, gets to his feet, fumbling in the loose snow. Side-by-side, watching the destruction reaching outward, toward the trees, they linger to see the fire reach its peak and fall again with the sound of thunder.

No matter how many times they’ve done this before: each time is just as satisfying.

“That cut it a bit too close for my tastes,” Marika remarks at last. She doesn’t mentioning disobeying orders, not yet.

No doubt Task Master Kell will have enough profanities to yell once they get back to base.

* * *

He’s right about that. Upon returning, they find Hemí and Sincha anxiously waiting, clearly relieved when both he and Marika walk through the Ring in one piece, albeit their eyebrows may be slightly singed. Their embraces are that of heroes’ welcome, but Kell is there too, a dark cloud of disapproval, and when he orders Second Recruit Dex to report to his office immediately, Ronon’s guts knot in worry, in that fear which he rarely feels except when faced with the Task Master.

Marika pats him on the shoulder. “The Ancestors be with you,” she says, a quiet  _Good luck._

* * *

Except halfway through the harsh words – unforgiving reminders of reality, of duty, of a soldier’s obligation to obey orders and he’d just disobeyed one from Specialist Marika, his commanding officer – something about Kell’s voice softens into rare approval, perhaps even appreciation.

The stress–laden air of Plegarus Military Center Headquarters is coldly unforgiving, piercing through the careful layers of his uniform jacket and coat. Snow is slowly melting from his boots, and normally that would be a thing to be berated for, dragging mud and fireflies into the Task Master’s office. Now, though, that’s not even mentioned, which could be a sign of either something very good or very bad.

“Disobedience is not usually tolerated,” Kell says. “But you have guts, son. Courage like that should not be wasted, and stubbornness isn’t an inherently negative quality. You re–turned with Specialist Marika safe and sound,  _and_  completed your mission successfully – am I correct, Recruit?”

“Yes, sir,” Ronon answers stiffly, back ramrod straight, wondering if this is the moment Kell declares him unfit for duty. He’s not sure if he could apply for University now, to sit behind a desk and study the great Masters of Literature even if that once was his greatest desire. He could become a war–poet; but disgraced utterly but this; and his mother would be so disappointed – “We completed our objective, sir.”

“And did you or did you not charge at a dozen Wraith on your own in order to assist your squadmate?”

“I did, sir.” Not alone: Melena was there. But he wouldn’t dare point this obvious thing out to the Task Master.

“Well, Recruit,” Kell says then, and he smiles: Ronon cannot ever recall seeing the stern man smile. “You have shown courage, and I’ve overseen your training and know you’re clever, you can think on your feet, which are some of the best qualities for a soldier to have – especially for the leader of a squad. Tell me, how does  **Specialist**  Ronon Dex sound?”

* * *

“So?” Sincha asks, eagerly, as Ronon and Melena emerge from Headquarters in a daze, and Ronon looks first grim and almost destroyed – then a broad grin spreads over his face, and Sincha’s frown turns into a shocked exclamation: “What?! No no no, don’t tell me…”

“Yeah.” And he opens his palm to show his newly received Tag, to be fastened upon his collar, and the gleaming stars there. “You’d better start calling me Specialist now.”

Sincha looks torn between friendly pride and twinges of jealousy. “No way. No way! There hasn’t been a Specialist this young since Task Hand Jun himself! Oh, wait until Hemí hears about this – by the Moons, I should’ve stuck with you back there! Imagine it: ‘Solen Sincha’ – it would rhyme so well.”

Ronon is too tired to point out he’s talking about alliteration, or that two people probably would’ve been too slow, and the explosion would have taken all of them. ”And we both might have been demoted,” he points out, needlessly.

“Well, this has got to be celebrated! We have a mission to the tavern,  _Specialist_  Dex!” Sincha finishes the flourish with a mock salute, laughter bubbling in his throat. Ronon lets it go, far too used to his antics, and instead considers where to find the nearest telecrypter to call his sister Renara, who lives in the Capitol, working at the hospital; it’s still mid–day on Sateda and her shift has not finished yet.

 _Specialist_. Part of him still can’t believe it.

Melena purrs:  _We are nearing the greatness of our mother._

_We want to make her proud._


	4. revolution, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _what they’re doing is right - it has to be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**iv.**   **  
**

# revolution

**part one**

_what they’re doing is right; it has to be._

* * *

**Planet designated 3-E57 (presence of Wraith: confirmed) · Pegasus**  
**Year 599 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 1996 (Terran time)**

* * *

It’s day fifty–nine.

Ronon still cannot stop counting, but it’s been fifty-nine days since he became promoted to Specialist; fifty-nine days since he was reassigned to a new team, leaving Marika and Sincha and Hemí behind. Making way for a new Recruit, because there can only be one Specialist per team. That’s how it works. And he still hasn’t slotted as neatly into place with his new squad, Strike Team Three, as he’d wished for.

Oh, they’re fine warriors. Good soldiers, reliable. Off–duty, though, there are some ragged lines, and their varying on–duty hours means meeting with his old team is difficult at best. Sometimes he wonders how they’re holding up with whoever his replacement is: someone young, narrow–minded, naive. Marika and Hemí will handle it, surely, but he’s not so sure about Sincha. He is a rather unique character.

Strike Team Three is different. Second Recruit Ara Kyrin – their explosives expert, it’s come clear – she seems all right. Wry humor. She’s the only one who doesn’t bring up his Dex heritage every second day, often to tauntingly compare; Rakai Jin is much worse. Albeit, come think of it, he’s similar to Sincha, slightly watered down at the edges, and Ronon can handle that.

Chief Specialist Tyre is a much harder subject to discern. The disdain and distrust had been clear from the beginning. They don’t like welcoming newcomers to their fold –  _We’ve stuck together through the thick and thin_ , Tyre had said during their first meeting. A Team has got to trust each other.

(But it only takes one mission until they have no problem watching each other’s back, because bonds are forged quickly when under fire.)

Now, fifty-nine days after that fateful day, Ronon is crawling through the underbrush, mud smeared on his face to hide the gleam of skin, and peers down the valley through a pair of chunky binoculars. 

“Now that’s something you don’t see every day,” Jin says, letting out a low whistle.

The shape of the broken and battered Wraith ship is in one word imposing. It crashed here dozens or even hundreds of years ago; the nose of it buried beneath the sand, and because this world is so barren, nothing has overgrown it. A silent shadow, so many times larger than any building in the Capitol that it’s difficult to grasp. Bringing this thing down would be tough.

Nothing they can’t handle, though.

“Remember, we’re here to observe and gather intel, not blow it up,” Tyre says, and Kyrin by his side sighs: “Sadly.”

Ronon considers it for a little longer. Imagines the ship whole, and glimmering with lights. Hundreds or thousands of Wraith aboard. Filling the horizon. Swarming with Screamer Ships: the air would tremble, the great winds rushing over the people below and he imagines, unbidden, the countryside he knows so well, the village where he grew up – a great shadow looming and spreading over the landscape, followed by clear blue beams of light; screams being cut short –

No. It will not happen. That is why they’re here – to make sure it doesn’t happen.

* * *

> _“People of Sateda – I am immensely proud to speak to you today, as your Chieftain, upon the turn of the six–hundredth year of Unity. For six long centuries we have had peace. This peace is something we have striven harshly for; we have bled, and wept, and thousands of lives have been lost. The lives lost in the Great Wars and the heroes of our people made there will never be forgotten._
> 
> _Times now have changed, and we are facing an old foe, the Enemy which have taken too many of our people. The Wraith, who have Culled our planet nearly out existence time and time and time again. Years and generations wasted, wasted possibilities; but in this Era we have grown stronger, our weapons are better – they are sleeping, and we have a chance now to strike. To wipe them out. To free ourselves! This is the hour for us to strike. This is the hour for us to act, and to call to arms, and to ensure that the peace of this generation will last forever.”_  
> 
> (Chieftain Tyrell speaking to the people of Sateda across public receiver,   
>  from the Liberties Monument in the Main Square of the Capitol   
>  during the celebration of the New Year) 

* * *

**The Capitol · Sateda**  
**Year 600 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 1996 (Terran time)**

* * *

 _The_   _Swordsman’s_  is loud, dank, and rowdy, and the perfect place to slip into if you don’t want to be bothered. A public receiver is set up in the corner, blazing the regular: score tallies from the latest games, weather forecasting, news reports. There is a break, though, for which Ronon has been waiting. He, too, wants to hear the Chieftain’s speech.

Strike Team Three had been offworld, on a recon, as the bells chimed and the fires burned to announce the 600th Year of Unification. Nothing to be done about it, and he’s proud to serve his nation.

Tensions have been rising lately. He’s not an idiot, and not blind. Task Master Kell’s face had been unusually strained as he had given the squad their mission: low–key, sneak in, do recon, stay for a few days. Check the ground and the air. Prepare. But prepare for what?

The planet – designated N–193 – was stuck in a haze of mist and darkness; perfect hideout for the Enemy. There was not just one base there but two large structures, part of the earth itself, rising like giant hills, imposingly. They had lingered for a fortnight, made camp. Not sighted any Wraith in person – that would mean rapid retreat – but close enough. It had been a cold world, and Ronon was glad to return to the summer of Sateda.

Now, he nurses his beer and listens to the scratchy, thin voice of the Chieftain.

And something begins to ache. A chord struck which is unexpected, and that is painful; uncertainty. It is uncertainty.

_We have a chance now to strike, to wipe them out._

No, it cannot be uncertainty, because Kell had so proudly announced their intentions and now the Chieftain is confirming it: they must fight the Wraith and free themselves. It is the only way to ensure a truly free Sateda, a world for their children and grandchildren and their children, a world which will remain green and full of life. 

He forcibly shakes the feeling off, and shares a thought with Melena. _We can’t afford to doubt._

What they’re doing is right – it has to be.

* * *

_“Hello?”_

“Hey, Ren.”

_“Ronon! It’s so good to hear your voice. When did you return?”_

“Last night,” he says. He’s still not very good at talking over telecrypter, but his sister doesn’t seem to mind. “Are you in the Capitol?”

 _“Yes. Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? I was transferred, a week ago, to the Main Hospital,”_ Renara says. _”Keeps me busy. The Chief Medicus is a right_ – _up old … Well, we mightn’t see eye_ - _to_ - _eye all the time, but otherwise it’s fine. The salary_   _and the food here are much better.”_

For the first time in weeks he smiles a true smile. “Sounds like you’ve found the right place then.”

_“And have you? With the Team, I mean.”_

“It’s all right. Listen, I have five days off. Do you have time to meet?”

_“I’ll see if I can clear up my schedule for an hour or so to meet my big brother.”_

“I could always shot myself in the foot or something and make sure to be admitted to Main,” he remarks, and she laughs.

_“Oh, and that’d make your superiors happy. What would you say – ‘I did it for a girl; it was important’?”_

“Whatever it takes.”

_“Ha. Right, well, I’ll call you when I know for sure, all right? I really won’t want to lose this job.”_

He can understand that. She’s well–trained, enthusiastic, bright, and will become one of the best surgeons Sateda has ever had, he’s certain. “Sure. Call me whenever. I’ll be right here. See you. Give Meereen a hug from me.”

_“And you give Melena a big sloppy kiss from me.”_

The click and empty dial tone as she hangs up is distressingly cold.

 Soon he might stop counting the days.


	5. a taste of stars, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _sometimes he wonders why he even bothers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**v.**   **  
**

# a taste of stars

**part one**

_sometimes he wonders why he even bothers._

* * *

**Uninhabited planet: The Wilderness · Pegasus**  
**Year 610 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 2005 (Terran time)**

* * *

The rain falls thick and heavy, and Ronon draws his coat tighter around him. He hasn’t bothered with the hood. The air here is musty in the way of woodlands. The trees grow in gnarled complicated patterns, but there is the hint of a path, an old road, hundreds or thousands of years old – overgrown, and not there at all unless you have sharp eyes.

Ronon sees it, though, and carefully follows. The moss and mud beneath his boots makes moving precarious, and he loathes leaving such obvious tracks to follow. Tries to make circles. Confuse any followers. The sky is so grey and matted that it’s difficult to make out the twin suns – midday, he reckons. His muscles, stiff with exertion, groan a little in protest as he moves over a fallen tree, uprooted in a past storm.

There are no people here, but plenty of wildlife, and if lucky, he will not go hungry tonight. And here he could dare to light a fire, as well, as soon as he’s laid out some traps and found a suitable hiding place for the night. A dream that actually might be attainable.

This damned rain. Shaking his hair from his eyes, he peers into the distance between the trees.

Some planets he visits more than once, but that is rare – this one, however, he knows is uninhabited. There are whispers, picked up by stray merchants, the brief inevitable human contact he and Melena has had over the last eight Satedan years; the traders call this world The Wilderness – there are plenty other worlds with similar names, cold and abandoned. This one however lives well up to it. It is a forestscape without end. Once, it is said, the Ancestors built something here: a city, a village, an outpost. Now, nothing lives here.

Particle magnum held ready, they make steady progress deeper and deeper into the woods, away from the Ancestral Ring. One good thing about this world is that the Wraith will have a hard time finding them here. Their Screamer Ships will not be able to pick easy targets beneath the twisted canopies, resorting to a hunt on foot, and here he can outwit and outmaneuver them. The routine comes easily: laying out a false path, diverting behind them, and building traps with what he finds is available. He will have no more than a day or so, at most, or a few hours, at worst, before the Wraith catch up, he works quickly. Some of it he was taught at the Academia: survival was always priority, because not all missions through the Ring would be smooth and easy, and the Team had spent days and nights out there, in hiding on Wraith-infested planets. Other things he’s taught himself over the years. Tricks to keep them alive for a few more hours.

* * *

 _Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers. They could cast themselves down, he and Melena, face the foreign sky of an unnamed planet,_  
_stare at its revolving sun until they cease to breathe;_  
_until they cease to be_

* * *

He does not count the miles or the minutes consciously. His mind sharpens the details anyway. Returning to the Ancestral Ring from here would take some half an hour, perhaps, if they moved swiftly.  _Properly motivated_ , as Sincha would laugh wryly:  _anyone can cross a mile in a minute if there are Wraith running behind them._

They take the longer route: Melena sharply on the lookout. Nothing follows. It’s quiet but for the distant song of birds and the echo of water of the stream to the northwest; nothing else.

And here the woodland is giving way to a structure: a great ruin, sprung from the grass as if grown slowly, but the stone is not the rough uneven surface of a simple village. No, despite the weathering of centuries, the building is extremely intact, and there is a polished edge to it which Ronon has only come across a few times before. A certain element to the design, difficult to place. A spacious unattainability, perhaps. There are pillars of steel, and he imagines that the building once stretched toward the skies like a tower.

He and Melena circle the perimeter, and eventually they find an entrance, slippery with mud and partially obscured. It is almost a hole in the ground; a level above might once have existed but  been demolished by the passage of time. Vines and roots have begun to pierce the building, eating through it slowly, but inside it’s airy and blessedly dry. There were windows here once, tall graceful things, but the glass is all shattered.

This was an Ancestral outpost. Ronon doesn’t smile but almost, exhaling: yes. This will do fine. It’s silent, and inside there is no sign of predators. They can light a fire – the compound is dark, the pillars bearing the high ceiling up littered with crystals of no apparent function. A few consoles – but they are cold, and unlit, and they don’t respond to touch. Whatever was once done here, the Ancestors left it to rot away by the wind and be forgotten.

The rain has started to let up. And in the broadening light cleaving the heavy clouds, he can see more clearly, some details that they distressingly missed before. Steps, right by the entrance to the compound: the vague imprint of boots, but not of a design he can recognize. Possibly the marks are simply so distorted they cannot be read properly, but Melena looks at them also and murmurs:  _They are less than a day old. Whoever made them must have left just before we arrived._

The coincidence is uncanny. Still – this compound might be of interest to scavengers of all kinds. Some of the Ancestral crystals would probably fetch a nice price at a market on the other side of the galaxy. Who knows what other treasures may be buried in the rubble?

_Let’s set up camp._

* * *

The fire crackles gently, and Ronon curls up in front of it, relishing the heat slowly spreading through the chamber. They’ve set up in a room a bit deeper inside the compound – here, he might feel safe enough to sleep for a few hours, before moving on. He was right about the wildlife, too: there’s plenty of game, and Melena had found a burrow of  _banau_ , and now the meat is slowly roasting. The echoes of simple basic comforts. If he closes his eyes, Ronon could imagine being somewhere else completely.

But they can’t live in dreamworlds. That keeps no one alive. Plucking the meat from the wooden spit, he eagerly begins to eat. Considers where to head next. Once they break camp, no time can be wasted on pondering possibilities.

The silence, so complete and encompassing: only the remnants of the rain, the birds singing in the distance. It’s not nightfall yet, and will not be for another hour or so, he reckons, though is not completely certain. Darkness has slowly been moving in, and he hopes that this planet is not in some kind of cycle of no night this time of year – the planets where he has encountered that before, the Ring was set in the northern hemisphere, and there was often a lot of snow. The cold here is of a different kind.

 _Could do without the damp, though,_  Melena says. She’s facing the entrance, guarding. She doesn’t need the fire like he does.

Physically, it’s not impossible for an Anima to remain awake while their human sleeps. Difficult – but they have learned to do it. Sleep is pleasant, and something an Anima could desire, but they do not actually  _need_  it. 

Last time they both slept, side-by-side, they had just been plucked by the Wraith and deposited on a foreign world, with nothing but his bare hands and Melena’s claws and then they had been given one single order:

**_Run._ **

Quickly enough they had learned the art of Sleepwalking, so that Melena can keep watch at all times, when exhaustion claims Ronon’s body. At least that is one safety, the only one he has now:  _Trust only in your weapons, your Team, and your Anima. Is that understood, Recruit?_

_Yes, Task Master._

Once he’s eaten, he lays down on his side, back against a nearby pillar, eyes lingering on Melena’s shape silhouetted against the breaking flames, until his vision blurs into darkness.

He lets it take him. Exhales …

* * *

_Ronon. Ronon!_

Like a flare, he rises upward: the particle magnum is already resting in his hands. The fire is crumbled ashes. Melena, poised by the entrance, is tense, claws outstretched, and gaze frantic and focused. 

They’re not alone.

_Wraith?_

_No_ , she whispers; the scent is all wrong – it doesn’t sound like them. They cannot hear the movement of Screamer Ships. But, straining, yes: footsteps. Bleak, and closing in. Ronon, moving from a kneeling position, slings his all–too–light pack over his shoulder, draws his cloak closed, and checks the power cell for the particle magnum. Fully charged. Reaching her side, he peers into the corridor.

A voice. A human voice. It’s speaking into air – or perhaps a receiver or other communication device.

“…Yeah, I found it. You were right, Lieutenant, it’s definitely an Ancient lab. … I think I’ve found a data log. Lots of science babble – could’ve used McKay on this one.”

A response – definitely through a receiver: _”Should we go back and fetch Dr Zelenka?”_

“Yeah, good idea. Time he got some offworld experience … Radio once you’re back.”

_“Will do, sir. Sanchez out.”_

And another thing: the facility, previously so still and dark, like the night itself, is … there is no other word for it: it’s coming alive. Pale artificial lights, sharp on Ronon’s retinas, wink online one after the other, forcing him to blink in startled surprise. A blue hue. And there’s a humming noise that is indescribable; an engine, but so much softer. A thrum of life. Melena holds back a soft growl. This is …

_Strange. This is strange._

Inch by inch they move through the now too bright corridor toward the main chamber, where the broken entrance and the previously dead consoles were. No sudden movements. He barely breathes. It might be just the one guy out there, but he was talking to someone and it sounded like they were bringing some kind of backup – but a doctor?

Doesn’t matter.

They see him now. The stranger is wearing greys and blacks, his back turned to them: he’s standing in front of one of the consoles, and a holographic projecting is shakingly hovering above it – they cannot see his Anima directly, but it’s got to be nearby. A shock of untidy dark hair – a holster on his thigh, and something in his belt that could be a knife; armed; a soldier? The details flash before them rapidly, and then the man’s whole frame tenses with awareness: it takes less than two seconds.

The stranger swirls around, grabbing what’s probably a weapon, aiming it in Ronon’s direction. If a shot had gone off, it would probably hit him right between the eyes, Ronon notes with a vague detachment; whoever this guy is he’s fast, his reflexes are well-tuned –

Ronon doesn’t think; he  _reacts_.

The shot hits true; he doesn’t even have to look to be certain. A bolt of red, spreading across the man’s side, and the stranger stumbles, falls with a choked cry – there is surprise rather than pain. Limply, he hits the ground, narrowly missing the console. The hologram above it dissipates into nothing, but the facility itself stays continually lit. It’s unsettling. How come this stranger could bring it online when it before appeared broken and useless?

Ronon counts to ten before he approaches, carefully. The stranger is sprawled across the smooth floor, sideways. His face is relaxed, peaceful in unconsciousness, yet wearied by time much like a tower is slowly torn asunder by a storm – caused not by age as much as by battles. What kind of battles, Ronon doesn’t know. The Wraith, surely – the Wraith haunt everybody. But there may be other things.

The thing resting loosely in his hands is definitely a weapon: a gun of some kind. From the design, Ronon guesses it fires physical ammunition in the form of bullets rather than energy blasts. His grey and black clothes are nondescript at first glance. He came through the Ancestral Ring armed; he is some kind of warrior; but from where? And why to this world of all worlds? Ronon cannot ever recall seeing people like him, wearing this foreign cloth, carrying these things he cannot properly name. On which planet was he born?

And Ronon isn’t sure what to do with him. The tracks, indicating other people here – is he among them? Are there others, also returned to the planet? He spoke with others via comm. Perhaps in search of the Ancestral facility – Ronon assumes it is Ancestral, or at least from a bygone age. The complicated panels make no sense to him, the technology derelict, and he has no use of any of it; right now survival takes precedence and he’s not interested in whatever this place was originally built for. But the strangers are. They may have come for the secrets buried in the sand. And they didn’t act like hunters; if they were cleverer and searching for a Runner, this man would not have so blindly stepped into the line of fire. No, he’d entered the compound expecting nothing but silence, and the building itself had come alive in his presence.

He could be anybody, just with the ill luck of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. At worst, he could be a Worshipper or of similar ilk, come here in search of the Runner himself, wanting to catch some promised prize. It wouldn’t be the first time Ronon has run into that kind of people (it had ended bloodily, that day; and he refuses to let himself be betrayed like that again). His clothes are fine and unstained; his weapons far more complicated than the Wraith usually let people’s technology evolve.

 _What do we do?_ Ronon looks to Melena, who is prowling the perimeter; she can sense no other scents nearby to indicate a tracker or companion of the stranger. Somehow, though he has dealt death and judgement countless times before, the thought of leaving the man here, unconscious and senseless to the world, does not feel remorseful. Soon enough the Wraith will come, and they will be delighted to find prey, and then the stranger will meet the terrible inevitable end of a Feeding.

He could, coldly, wield his knife like a butcher in the slaughterhouse. End it. But he is not that man – if he ever was.

_We need to find out who this stranger is before the Wraith arrive._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(The animal I call "banau" is also mentioned in chapter ii._ war _. Imagine that it's sort of like a rabbit or hare.)_


	6. revolution, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“People of Sateda, I urge you not to fear...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**vi.**   **  
**

# revolution

**part two**

_“people of Sateda, I urge you not to fear …”_

* * *

**Plegarus City · Sateda · Pegasus**  
**Year 601 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 1998 (Terran time)**

 

* * *

Hemí dies that year. They manage to retrieve the body, at least.

The funeral is beautiful, the pyre magnificent. Sincha is so drunk he might be mistaken for sober, and whispers useless things. Marika is solemn, and asks Ronon to write an  _elegeia,_  as is proper; she knows he was studying to be a poet. The art is in his hands.

It’s not the first one he writes, nor the last.

He sings it quietly, and lets the word be eaten by the roaring flames; and the cleric chants as the bell chimes so peacefully:

 _o bellator Satedum, o en pace_  
_Priores clementia animae tuae_  
_o bellator Satedum, o en pace …_

* * *

_“Renara Dex speaking. Who is this?”_

His sister sounds frantic over the telecrypter.

“Ren, it’s me.”

 _“Ronon! Ancestors, tell me what’s going on, if you know anything_  –  _the receivers are all talking about, about a Screamer Ship_  –  _the alarms … Oh, Ancestors. Is it true? Ronon?”_

He exhales, shuddering. “Yes. It came through the Ring and managed to break through the Military Center, but was shot down above Benaigen.” That’s only two miles from the Capitol, a thriving little town. Close enough for the Screamer Ship to be heard all the way to the Main Hospital, to Governmental, to her apartment – the warning klaxons had sounded and woken the whole city and everything nearby. The animals in the surrounding farms had screamed and children clung to cowering parents. The Military Center had been rushed into action. The Ring rests on the outskirts of Plegarus City, constantly under guard; the men and women defending it had been taken by the Screamer Ship. They are dead now. “My Team was part of the effort sent to deal with it.”

The public telecrypter booth is cramped, and a lot of the lights are still out: they had killed the main power to a lot of services, blacked out whole suburbs, in a panicked response. At least the silence of night would help save lives.

_“Was anybody …? And where are you?”_

“A booth outside the Military Center in Plegarus. I wasn’t sure I could reach you because of the blackout.”

_“Power returned half an hour ago. Are you hurt?”_

“No,” he assures her. Melena, prowling outside the booth in a wide circle, gives away his unrest. This was so close, far too close. A Screamer Ship hasn’t been to Sateda for over a generation – he has had nightmares about this happening.

Now it is unfolding, and he wants to scream. “I’m fine,” he says, forcing his voice to be calm, gathered. Certain. Certainty; his life and his Team and his people depend on certainty in hope, in their weapons, their prowess. Closes his eyes. “The Screamer Ship was destroyed on the plains.” If anyone was swept up by the enemy, they are dead now. Gone. “It … it was a scout.”

 _“Oh, Ancestors.”_ If her voice was dazed with sleep before, Renara is wide-awake now. Clear and shuddering, threatened with terror.  _“What’s happening? Oh, Moons, Ronon, it’s happening. A Culling … it’s happening, it’s starting_  – _”_

The attack is reaching Sateda. “No,” he says. Reinforces. Wants (has to) make her, and himself, believe. Believe. The strength of Sateda cannot, will not, fail. They will live, Sateda will survive; they will be safe; they have to prevail. There is no other choice. “We won’t let that happen.”

_“But what can we do? They have ships. You know, you have seen them; you’ve told me … it’s not just stories. Sateda can’t match that.”_

Sateda have no ships capable to orbiting the planet; the scientists are working to achieve it, but Ronon (deep down) knows it is too late. They have focused on developing weapons, stolen Wraith tech and adapted it, begun exchanging bullets for pure fire. And there is only one thing they can do: can  _try_  to do:

“We’ll fight back.” He glances toward the rising dawn, the great metropolis of the Capitol a breathtaking silhouette. The kind of beauty he once dreamed of writing poetry about. Now he can see it: imagine the towers blackened by dust, foundations crumbling. Smoke rising. Sirens crying out. Bodies scattered across the pavement. “Don’t worry, Ren.”

_it’ll be all right._

(He cannot remember anymore when lie became truth, and truth became lie.)

* * *

> _“Do you hear the sirens? That is the sound of War approaching._
> 
> _People of Sateda, I urge you not to fear. We will not bow to invaders, for this is our land, our planet, our nation. The hard-won safety and security of our nation and our people is being tested, and now is the time to defend it. The bravery of our soldiers, young and old, of the United Planetary Forces is going to be tested. It will be tested again and again. This test will be hard, but we will survive, as we have survived the Last Culling. Our Strike Teams have weakened the Enemy defenses: we are ready now to cut off the head of the Enemy. We are ready. We are ready!_
> 
> _We will save Sateda, and the coming generations will celebrate the courage and splendor displayed by the heroes of today. People of Sateda, I implore: take up arms, and unite! unite against the Enemy which is trying to take away your homes, your lives, everything we have ever fought for!_
> 
> _We are one people; one nation; we will not be defeated. Today is the day history shall be written. Submit defeat and we shall all die; but the Satedan warrior spirit lives among us all, and together, together we will face this Enemy and defeat it once and for all. Sateda will be free – Sateda will be **free**!” _
> 
> Chieftain Tyrell in her annual speech   
>  as broadcast across public receiver   
>  during the sixth year of the Tyrell regime

* * *

**Planet designated 9-051 (presence of Wraith: unknown) · Pegasus**  
**Year 601 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 1998 (Terran time)**

* * *

It’s meant to be a simple mission: get in, find the target, destroy. Done countless times.

This time the Wraith are awake and waiting.

It’s not meant to be happening this way. The intel is all wrong. The complex is much bigger than the recon suggested, the guard much heavier; and when the ambush comes, they aren’t ready. Pinned down. The Ancestral Ring is a mile down the road; they could make it, they could make it –  _they have to make it_  –

Rakai is the first to be hit. Stumbling and falling, he and his Anima crumble motionlessly to the ground and remain there. Ara reaches out, in attempt to pull her teammate and friend to safety, but a stun bolt hits her arm, then another her chest, and she falls still too. And Ronon tries to lay cover fire so that they can retreat; Melena can carry an Anima, and Tyre’s Anima the other, and the humans can take the bodies; they could escape (together), they could escape;

Then Tyre stumbles. His leg. He can’t run without his leg, or carry an unconscious man –

Tyre yells, an order: “Go.  _Go_!”

He is the only one who has a chance. Ronon freezes, refusal burning in his chest. It goes against his instincts. “Move it, Specialist!” Tyre shouts. Darkly. “Get backup.  **Go**!”

 _Backup._  Ronon forces himself to move, and casting a look over his shoulder – _I’m sorry_ – he breaks into a run; barrels down a Wraith, two – and Tyre is no longer shouting. Silenced. The gun in his hand is smoking from use, barrel overheated, and in midmotion he empties it, reloads with a fresh clip. Ducks behind a shiver of rock, Melena following, and sprays the pursuing Wraith – there’s six of them, seven, eight – down with bullets. The air is singing.

 _Go,_  is the order.

He follows it. 

* * *

Afterward, the details are blurry. He reaches the Ring, and Melena is killing the Wraith which has reached them first as he desperately punches in the symbols in the correct order – the lights of the Ring begin to spin, and the seconds it takes for the wormhole to form are far too many, far too slow. A grazing pain – and he stumbles, but doesn’t fall.

He throws himself through the Ring. A series of stun blasts chase him down, and one hits a sentry posted on the Satedan side. As soon as the Ancestral Ring has disestablished, two medicals rush forward; and Task Hand Jun is there, demanding: “Dex! Where by the stars is your Team?”

“Pinned down,” he gasps. “Ambush. Need to go back.”

“How many?”

He inhales, exhales. “A dozen, and more bearing down on us. They knew we were coming. Somehow, they  _knew_  …”

Jun’s face is drawn and pale and angry. For a moment he doesn’t say anything. Then, words that Ronon doesn’t even want to hear: “We cannot risk another Team.”

Melena releases a growl; ready to pounce, to make them see how wrong they are;

 **No.**  No, no, no – they can’t just  **abandon**  them – “They’re counting on us!”

“I know, Specialist. But you said it yourself: a dozen Wraith, and more coming. We cannot divert resources for that.”

 _Cannot divert resources…?!_  Drawing himself to his full height, Ronon pushes off the medicals, who in vain try to seek his body for wounds. “We have to go back. Or I will.”

“No. I’m sorry, Ronon, but we cannot let you do that. We have orders from Task Master Kell.”

* * *

He is pulled from the Ring, restrained by four guards – and it’s so wrong so wrong so wrong; his Team is on the other side, waiting for a rescue that will never come –

* * *

A night in a cell should be nothing, should mean nothing. Easy to endure. But this night he and Melena curl up on the hard stone floor, ignoring the physical cold, and he might have wept. He is worse than a traitor; he should have remained with his Team and died with them. Done the honorable thing. Died a Satedan death.

_We are the cowards. We are no better than the Wraith._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ancient/Latin translations :**  
>  **bellator Satedum** warrior of Sateda  
>  **Priores clementia animae tuae** [may the] Ancestors have mercy on your soul  
>  **en pace** be at peace


	7. a taste of stars, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m a Runner.”_   
>  _“I don’t know what that means.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**vii.**   **  
**

# a taste of stars

**part two**

_“I’m a Runner.”  
“I don’t know what that means.”_

* * *

**Uninhabited planet: The Wilderness · Pegasus**  
**Year 610 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 2005 (Terran time)**

 

* * *

The cavernous room where he has carved out temporary refuge is just a few yards from the entrance to the compound, but the man is heavier than he looks. Ronon hauls the limp body over his shoulder like a sack of grain, after removing the weapon the stranger had been holding, clipped to his vest by a thin black cord – clever thing, Ronon has to admit. Whoever designed this gear was good, even if there appears to be more cloth than protective metal to the uniform.

Putting the man down, not too gently yet not with the harshness he would have treated a prisoner he hated, because this isn’t a personal war – or even a war at all – Ronon digs into his pack for some rope, saved for occasions like these. Arranges him against the broad pillar in front of the dying embers of the fire, hands tied securely with a knot just as he learned from Task Hand Jun –  _Not even Wraith could break these bonds,_ he’d said.  _Not even they are strong enough._

Then Ronon leans back, takes in his handiwork. Can’t admire it. This man is a stranger, neither friend nor foe. If he hadn’t stumbled into the Ancestral compound the second he did, he wouldn’t be unconscious and tied up. If he hadn’t, Ronon wouldn’t be in this dilemma of having no idea of what by the Moons to  _do_  with him.

A traveler? explorer? Even some traders carry weapons – though then where are the man’s goods, and why would a trader come to an uninhabited world such as this? A scavenger, perhaps, seeking hidden riches to be sold or exploited. Not one of the detestable Bola Kai, though. His steps had been confident and deliberate; he had not moved with the graces of a man lost and seeking shelter for the night. He had approached the ruins as if knowing exactly where to find them and what to find.

No. Somehow, none of these words seem to fit. And there’s the receiver transmission – he’s not alone. His companions might start looking for him.

Still keeping a quiet eye on the unmoving man’s face, in case he wakes earlier than he’s supposed to, Ronon begins the methodical task of stripping him of his gear. Figuring out the straps and buttons systematically: beneath the jacket he finds no hidden weapons, no daggers, nothing, not even in the boots. A poor habit for a solider – all Satedans would know to carry one knife for the enemy to find and a number of them concealed.

There’s a knife in the belt. He inspects the steel: it’s not made exactly like his own mixed assortment of knives. This one is fine, well-made. On Balkan he’d fetch a hefty sum for it, should he ever need to trade for ammunition or bread. Another knife appears from a pocket in the black, padded vest, but this one is peculiar: folding into different shapes, an object with more than one function. Flicking it back and forth in his hands, Ronon considers its different arms. This will be useful for more than killing Wraith. Decisively, he pockets it.

There are other things too; a clump of matte cream-colored dough which is marked with strange lettering he cannot read, but it’s reminiscent of the base material of one of the explosive devices frequently used by Strike Teams on seek-and-destroy ops. A couple of fist-sized cylinders with clear metal pins, and if they work as he thinks they do, as small grenades, then those pins aren’t to be touched. 

 _He’s well_ - _armed, but came alone._

 _Didn’t expect to face trouble,_  Melena concludes.  _Or expected to be able to handle it._

Where is the Anima, though? It should be here, nearby. Visible.

Maybe it was so tiny it escaped down a drain and was washed away.

(That would strain and sever a Bond – but people can’t scream when they’re unconscious.)

He is tearing through the fifth pocket of the stranger’s gear when there’s a shift in the corner of his eye. A slight, slight movement.

The stranger wakes up very silently. As if used to being stuck in enemy territory, or as if prone to nightmares; his head lolls, minutely, eyes flickering – the cave is dark, and damp, but the sliver of white sun that falls from the opening crosses the man’s face. A frown crosses the forehead, dazed and confused – then he blinks a few more times, straightens his spine.

Stiffens. Finds his hands are bound behind his back.

Releases the softest mutter that could be a curse.

“Oh, hi there,” the man says, finding the Runner’s silhouette. And then – of all things – there is a tiny smile: deceptively pleasant, and if this was a decade earlier Ronon might have been caught off guard, naively. Found it truly pleasant to look at, and not thought about underlying warnings. Not now, though.

The man doesn’t try to move or struggle. He doesn’t panic or scream. When Melena walks into his vision, the sight of her powerful frame, her claws and her long, curved teeth – they don’t seem to faze him; he merely blinks. Surprised, perhaps impressed, but not afraid.

“So. How’s this going to work?” he says instead. “Do I start, or do you?”

Ronon stares right at him for a moment, and doesn’t speak. Tries to read the lines in the stranger’s face. It’s … a lot more difficult than he’d thought. Perhaps it is the deceptive silence behind that smile; perhaps the fact his eyes are much colder than expected. Perhaps it’s the Anima, so small and in hiding that Ronon hasn’t found it yet. Melena has suggested it must be some small rodent, curled inside the stranger’s pockets. He still wears his jacket, though Ronon opened it and checked the sleeves for knifes. There were none. If this man is a warrior, he is a sloppy one.

Now the man squints back at him, and doesn’t seem the least afraid. It is … quietly unnerving. “All right. My name’s Major John Sheppard.”

A strange name. Unknown. Tastes foreign, but it somehow fits the shape of the man, his bearing.

Then, having seen enough, Ronon looks away and continues rifling through the possessions he had liberated. The man shifts slightly, but not broadly, or loudly. A sigh scrapes the air.

“Look, I’ve got people looking for me, and, trust me, you don’t want them to come in here guns blazing. And I’m guessing if you wanted me dead I’d be dead already. So why don’t you just tell me who you are and what you want.” 

And there is an edge of boredom even, as if he’s gotten captured often enough to make a routine out of it – these dry, mocking greetings; the curl of careful softness in his voice when he says this, not quite a demand. This is a game he has played before. With whom, and when? It’s a sign of survival; if he has been captured by enemies before and escaped, he might be a force to be reckoned with.

Ronon doesn’t answer, and the man rolls his eyes. “Be that way.”

Some of the items are just like the man, an enigma, but others are recognizable. From within the fifth pocket within the vest, Ronon pulls out what looks like a receiver, except without any wires to a charge pack or power cell. Maybe it’s built into it somehow, like in his particle magnum. There are clips, also, of ammunition, bullets of some sort, made to fit two different weapons – no doubt the two guns the stranger had carried; one clipped to his vest at chest-height, the other, smaller one in a thigh holster.

Curiously Ronon tests the smaller one in his hand. It fits all right, though looking at it he can tell the range is not that great. Perhaps better for one-on-one battles, closer range, situations demanding smaller arms, last resorts. It takes a moment to find the function to open it, ejecting a clip; right now the weapon is full. Cold from disuse and clean from regular maintenance.

“Might want to be careful with that,” the man says, a breeze of nonchalance: if he fears torture or death he doesn’t show it. Perhaps he’s stupid or brave – or both – but courage is a thing Ronon can admire; if this is his method of surviving, he cannot fault him for it. “Looks like the safety’s off.”

Maybe he seeks to make his captor grow so annoyed he does something rash. A mistake. But Ronon is a patient man. He won’t slip up; he cannot afford to. Running from the Wraith has taught him that even more than Kell’s harsh drills ever did.

“…Not very talkative, are you?”

The man is, on the other hand, and Ronon is briefly tempted to shoot him, for real this time, not just stun. To shut him up. But the temptation is fleeting, like a wave reaching the shore in a crest; then it pulls back, is relieved. This stranger is wearing clothes unlike any he’s seen before, and he might even call it a uniform for its unimaginative greys and the way it has been designed for efficiency, with several pockets; there’s the odd vest, of a material he cannot name, which had taken a moment to work out how to pull of the man. If it’s some kind of armor, Ronon considers it shoddy and far too vulnerable. Too easy to be torn apart by knife, or claw, or hand; good, true Satedan armor was steel-plated. No Wraith can force a hand through that.

But there are weapons. The design reminds him of the scraps he’d found on a forested moon circling a red giant once: there had been a depot there, an underground chamber, a stash of weapons which it only took some  _persuading_  to get a closer look at. The people guarding it (not very well) had worn uniform, too, but in dark greens like shadow on grass, and no protective vests over their torsos.

No, this man is not one of them – this one is a stranger. It’s incredibly vexing not being able to pinpoint his origins.

Letting him talk for a moment more, Ronon is aware that the man is doing more than just rambling – carefully, as it might be, the man is looking at him. Assessing. A warrior’s eyes, seeking weak points: sweeping over the Runner and his Anima, past them, toward the entrance to the chamber, the even flat walls. The lights flicker, briefly; continuing to glow.

“All right. I get it,” the man says. “You’re some kind of lone wolf and we stumbled on your secret Batcave – look, if you just let me go, I’ll go back through the Gate and we can pretend none of this happened. All right?”

His words are strange; but by ‘Gate’ he could mean the Ancestral Ring. Ronon has heard other words for it before: the Portal, the Great Circle. It is the only way to leave or enter this world, so the man can mean nothing else.

He also said  _we_. It could mean nothing: he could mean himself and his Anima. It could also mean there are others with him; and Ronon knows there must be, because he has seen the muddy tracks by the entrance. A group of four or five came through here shortly before he arrived, then left before he could see them. Not just travelers or reckless explorers. Their tread of boot had been new to him, but he had thought it might be Wraith, and what’s when he set to work on the traps.

Time to find out who they truly are. Casually, steadfastly, he has gotten a good enough grip of the weapon – lithe, sleek, doesn’t seem all that powerful – and he stands to his full height, aware that his stature can be powerfully looming if he wants it to, and cocks the muzzle aimed right at the stranger’s face.

The man doesn’t blink. He has played this game before, more than once, Ronon realizes, distantly. Was that how he got that scar on his neck? The white ridges, faint yet sharp: it looks a bit like something from an animal, a bite, a claw, rather than man-made. A shot there is hardly survivable. But weapons can be very versatile. And Ronon knows how to be creative.

“Who are you?” The same hoarseness of disuse as always: Ronon resists the urge to clear his throat. The growl adds to his menacing figure, the effect which most of the time is necessary to keep people at bay.

The stranger repeats: “Major John Sheppard.”

“Major?”

“It’s a rank – a military designation.”

As he thought. He wonders if he’s part of the cannon fodder, or higher up – his way of talking is like a charade, and he reminds him a bit of Hemí with those solemn grave eyes – a striking green – but also of Sincha with that ever-running voice. Losing focus to delude the enemy.

“Where’s your Anima?”

Sometimes words are translated by the Ancestral Ring and sometimes they aren’t, and Ronon has begun to develop a sense of it, now: that minute delay between sound and movement, an indication that the word is said and thought differently.

The man is very still. “Oh, they’re around,” he says, head titled slightly as if listening. Perhaps he is whispering or seeking reassurances over his own Bond. Praying. He doesn’t take his eyes off Ronon or the weapon in his hand.

“The people you were with – who are you, and where are they?”

An _ah_ -sound of realization, of a decoy not functioning. “We’re a team of explorers,” he says. “Those are my people, who, as I mentioned, are going to notice I’m missing, and they’ll try to find me. Right now, I guess they could be doing just that.” A pause. The man rolls his shoulders stiffly, no doubt strained in the position he’s in. And Ronon wonders if perhaps he should have tied up his legs, too. At the time, it hadn’t seemed that vital: the man isn’t that large or heavily muscled, frame nimbly sleek, hands unscarred – but perhaps his body as just as deceptive as his voice. “Look, whatever you want from me, just get it over with.”

But Ronon _doesn’t_   _want_   _anything_ from him. He hadn’t targeted the man when he came to this world. These people – they may follow him, or leave him be. But if Sheppard is right and not lying, then his people may extract revenge or seek a hunt of Ronon was to kill the man, even if he isn’t fond of the thought of burdening himself with a prisoner. Does he have to?

He considers, quietly. Most of the things the man carries if not of interest or value to him. He’ll take the food. The weapons may be handy, for a time. He could take that, leave the rest. Knock the man out and untie him …

The Wraith will come soon enough – he has lingered here for too long. Yes, they’ll find his tracks and if he leaves the man here, his people scattered and searching – they could be the next victims of the Wraiths’ feast. Is that what he wants?

“Could I ask one question now?” When Ronon doesn’t answer, the man does anyway: “Who are you?”

And he finds himself rasping, “Specialist Ronon Dex.”

Words he hasn’t relied for years. Somehow it is both like twisting a knife and pulling it out. He can’t decide.

The man tries the word,  _Specialist,_ and Ronon sees his lips moving soundlessly. Wondering, perhaps, what it means. But he doesn’t remark on it, or ask if it’s a rank, like his Major is  – who he fights for, if anyone;

“Military?” the man asks, brows curling together briefly in surprise, a recognition flickering there that might even be hope. Is he wondering – does this force still exist? Is he wondering about possible alliances, wondering if his people are not the only ones to fight back –

“Used to be.”

The unsaid is like a weight, settling between them, but not wholly unfamiliar. Both have lost people and hope to the Wraith, Ronon is certain. No world is left untouched.

“Well. Nice to meet you, Specialist. You’re not from around here, I take it?” the man says instead.

And there is just something which makes Ronon intrigued. He can’t help it.

Perhaps because he sees other shadows there: of Ara, her stubborn streaks, and of Tyre’s relentless humor, the dry sarcasm; of friends long since turned to dust. He sees the echoes of a life still being lived in full and he wonders, suddenly, with burning intensity, what the name of the man’s planet is. How full of life it is. If everyone carries names just as strange, there. If they, too, attempt to fight the Wrath like Sateda –

He doesn’t carry the weapons a trader would to defend himself from robbers. He carries no goods.

He is a warrior – for whom? for what? _To which cause has he sworn an oath?_

This curiosity is so raw and sudden that it takes Ronon off-guard. It is like the swelling muse the seconds before his eyes slide shut to sleep, words rising unbidden, asking to be remembered: such was the poetry he wrote before Sateda’s fall.

And he answers: “No.”

“Me neither,” the man says. Making pointless small talk. “What’s home to you, then?”

 _Home_. The word is ashes; the word is death; the word is the never-ending aching of a heart and the tears and the blood and the explosion of the Hospital being erased;

Not here.

Something must have shown on Ronon’s face, because the man briefly looks away almost as if ashamed of having asked – as if he could know, too, what it is like to not have a home; or to have it torn from you, rapidly and violently, and even with plenty of warnings and blaring sirens, knowing there was nothing to be done.

Instead he asks, softly: “How long?”

And Ronon has stopped counting the years the Satedan way. “Too long.”

_But not long enough to forget._

“Look, I – obviously, we’re strangers. But my people, we’ve met others like you –” homeless, scattered souls; the lost; the broken ones – Ronon doesn’t know if he means one or all at once. “Ever heard of Athos?”

“No.”

The stars are far too numerous to know all the planets out there by heart.

“The Wraith destroyed their settlement, but the survivors came with us. Found shelter.” A hint of bitterness. If it is because of the inevitability of the Wraith, or something else, Ronon doesn’t know. But his hands are slowly relaxing, and he has lowered the gun slightly, to point not between the man’s eyes but at the juncture of the throat. A bullet there would kill, too. But this way it is easier to see his expression, unblurred. “Maybe one day they can go back, but …”

Suddenly, words are right there on his tongue. Breaking free. “I **can’t** go back.”

The  _why_? is unasked, unnecessary, conveyed only through those eyes: and Ronon thinks he might have seen them before. The ice there – he has seen it in his mother’s eyes, before she died, when he was still so young and striving to perfect the beauty of High Satedan. Those were the eyes he had thought of when writing the  _elegeia_  to be sung over the pyre – she had deserved a warrior’s burial, to be consumed by the flames; without a body the fire had bled out emptily and slowly in the morning light –

Those are the eyes of a killer; not the merely detached, ruthless one, but one burning with so much passion it has to be contained before it bursts.

“I’m a Runner.”

“I don’t know what that means,” the man confesses.

Ronon didn’t either, not until he was strapped down, a knife pressed to his spine –

“The Wraith, they put a device, a tracker, in me. So they can follow me anywhere. Everywhere. And then they let me loose.”

_Like a beast._

The man considers for a moment. Then he says: “Maybe we could get that tracker or whatever it is out. Disable it. Stop it broadcasting. We’ve seen something similar before. But we stopped them then, we could do it again.”

And this whisper of hope is almost too much to bear – they’re strangers; why would this be offered, even at gunpoint?

The man isn’t pleading for his life, instead ignoring the weapon pointed at his face – an enigma; reckless, that kind of courage which Task Hand Jun would so have admired. Jun might have looked at this man and considered him a loose cannon but also one of those golden opportunities that the Planetary Forces  _needed_  to save Sateda; not fearless but able to override that fear, a living illusion of contradictions.

“Why?” Ronon asks. Hopelessly. Helplessly. “Why would you help me?”

Major John Sheppard shrugs. “I like to think we’re the good guys. And you’re the guy pointing the gun at my head. If we helped you, would you let me go?”

He doesn’t break away the stare. “Your people can remove the tracker?”

“Yeah. I think. Look, I’m not a doctor – but we’ve got doctors in At… at home, we’ve got skilled healers. If they can’t do it, then nobody can.”

An arrogant ultimatum. And yet …

 _What have we got to lose? He does not seem to be lying,_ Melena murmurs.

But even honest men may decide to cut you down once you turn your back.

* * *

Melena, circling the chamber slowly, alerts him when the receiver suddenly sparkles into noise. There’s static. Then, another voice and for the first time the man’s eyes flicker sideways –

_“Major Sheppard, this is Olsen; do you copy? We’ve returned with Zelenka and are on approach to the ruins, estimated ETA twenty minutes. … Major Sheppard, do you read? … Major Sheppard, please respond.”_

It was no lie – he is not alone.

The man glances between the pile of gear where the receiver lies, and the Runner in front of him. “Look, if I don’t answer, they’ll presume I’m incapacitated or captured, and I don’t know how it works for you, but we don’t leave people behind.” This conviction does not taste like a lie. An echo of the same honesty expressed by Kalah on Attaria when she had offered shelter and food. This man truly believes in what he’s saying.

(They had all believed, until Sateda was scorched.)

The receiver doesn’t silence. A frantic undertone:  _”Major Sheppard, please respond. Do you read?”_

“Let me talk to them.”

And call them here? Ronon hefts the weapon, showing clearly:  _No tricks._  And the man looks right into his eyes and nods slowly – an understanding.

For ten long seconds, neither of them speaks, barely breathes. Melena has stilled her watchful pace.

Then, Ronon grabs the receiver, holding it toward the stranger’s mouth – presses the button, hoping it works like those on Sateda. Apparently he did the right thing, because relief crosses the man’s face, like an exhale. “Lieutenant Olsen, this is Sheppard – do you copy?”

And there is relief also in the response. A whispered  _Thank God_ , before the voice reenters conversation:  _“Good to hear your voice, sir. What’s your location?”_

“Well, I’m having a bit of a party with a new friend, of the human sort. It’s rather cozy. Mind giving a call to the old folks back home?”

It’s a strangled, hurried bit of code, and Ronon understands completely why he uses it. The man clearly has his wits about him, after all.

 _“Will do, sir,”_  Olsen – Lieutenant? – answers. The worry is giving way to strict professionalism.  _“Is anyone else going to be invited?”_

“No need to crash the party.” Continuing the analogy. But it is a lie, Ronon is certain; he’s telling his men that he’s unharmed for now, alive and breathing, no surprises, but surely they will not merely walk away and leave him hostage. That is at least what honorable men would have done; they would try to free him, one way or another. The questions is how, and how soon, and using what numbers and what weaponry.

Another glance. This time, Ronon realizes, a question directed at him; a raise of eyebrow, a nod in his direction _. Tracker?_  the man mouths, clear enough for the Satedan to read. And the offer made – Ronon hadn’t thought he’d seriously consider it, but he is, and an emotion he cannot name starts to churn, warmly.

If they could remove it …

_We could be free._

And in that moment, like flipping a coin, Ronon decides.

Releasing the button, so that they won’t be heard, he says: “Tell them to send one of your medicals – doctors _._  Alone and unarmed. Once they’ve removed the tracking device, you both can go.”

The man holds his gaze, believing him, or at least giving the show of doing so. Anyone would be wary. When the receiver is held out again, the man does follow this order.

“Olsen, I need you to get back home and get an MD here with a full med kit including a scanner. And they’ve got to come alone and unarmed. Just the doc and the med kit. No surprises. That’s an order.”

The people on the other side must be full of questions, but they don’t raise them, understanding the urgency and the seriousness of the situation. “ _Understood, sir_.” Clipped, terse. No doubt they are sure now that their man is a prisoner, speaking only on the terms of his captor.  _“Anything else?”_

“Get a move on quick, because we could have Wraith inbound any minute because of a tracking device – tell Teyla it’s like the locket on Athos; she’ll get it. Any Gate activity?”

Ronon lets them continue to talk. It’s a risk, but something – instinct, basic and raw, overriding years of training and experience in the field of covert ops – tells him, sharply, to let it be done. The concern in Sheppard’s voice is genuine, he wants his people off this planet before the Wraith arrive; likewise, the other one sounds equally true. Loyal. From the way they clearly understand one another – these are no strangers, or reluctant comrades where one gives the orders and the other cannot question. Are they part of a Strike Team, as Ronon and Melena once loyally were?

His chest is aching, all over again.

_“No, it’s all clear, but we found some traps in the woods; no injuries though.”_

“That would be the artwork of my new friend here, I’d guess.” A good guess. “All right, get your team and Zelenka, double back to the Gate, and get a med kit here as soon as you can. We’re on a schedule. Sheppard out.”

_“Copy all. I’m leaving Sanchez to monitor Gate activity. Olsen out.”_

The receiver goes dark.

If they don’t keep to the deal, then Ronon will have no choice but to pull the trigger, and they both know it.

* * *

They don’t small talk – the man tries, a couple of times, to break the silence, awkwardly, but Ronon doesn’t take the bait. He feels, in a way, exhausted. Now, sitting in front of the still bound man, particle magnum aimed at him sharply but unenthusiastically, he feels – he feels too much. Like water collected over too much time, gathering a storm, spilling over the edges.

No human contact lasting this long has ever ended well. Not since he became a Runner. Not since he started grinding human worlds to dust, the further and farther he ran.

But Major John Sheppard has made an offer of hope – the unattainable dream of freedom; Ronon isn’t sure anymore if he could handle it, to be honest. If he could quench the weary paranoia and the adrenaline rush at the smallest noise and the constant battle of flight or fight;

_Could we endure?_

They sit in silence, and Sheppard has moved into a cross-legged position, unhindered, groaning slightly from stiffness but not complaining in words. His hands are still bound. He might mean no harm and keep his promises, but Ronon is no fool. Sheppard is a warrior. Certain rules are ingrained in his flesh, like they are in Ronon’s. Were he to cut the ropes, there’s no guarantee the man will attempt to disarm him, and that would mean Ronon would have to kill him. For some reason, the thought is – not quite upsetting, but … unsettling. Melena is certain, this unshakable feeling, that Sheppard isn’t a Worshipper; not an Enemy; to strike him down would not be the honorable thing. What a Satedan would do.

He doesn’t want to linger on it.

He studies the lines of the man’s face. Tries to guess the hardships and the years. The white scar on his throat – it could be a year old or two or ten or from childhood, it’s hard to tell. Ronon might almost ask where he got it, but not all scars come from heroic deeds and wants to be remembered. He bears plenty of those himself.

* * *

_“Major, this is Sanchez – we’ve got Gate activity, two Darts, repeat: two Darts incoming!”_

“Darts?” Ronon asks sharply, already moving.

“Small Wraith ships,” Sheppard explains: “the ones they use for ground assault.”

_Screamer Ships. They’ve come._

Major Sheppard shifts, acutely aware of his bound hands. “Untie me.”

Ronon pulls out his knife. They don’t have much time – “If I do, we’ll fight them here. Wherever I go, they’ll follow.”

“I understand that,” Sheppard says. “Look, we can still help you with the tracking device. Fight the Wraith and help you.”

The last time he and Melena fought beside anyone in attempt to defeat the Wraith, Sateda was burning all around them, the towers wrought to ruin;

He has made his choice.

He cuts through the bonds, and Sheppard pulls himself to his feet, stiffly. When Ronon hands over his vest and weapon, he accepts, silently – gears up in quick efficiency while talking to his man – Sanchez – over the receiver. “Sanchez, this is Sheppard. Any chance to Gate offworld?”

 _“Negative, sir, they’re dialing out, cutting us off,”_  is the reply.  _”Got to wait thirty_ - _eight minutes.”_

“Copy. Keep your head low. We’re headed out to face them; I’m pretty sure where the Wraith are headed.” And then he says the oddest thing: “Shy’s scouting ahead. Tell me if anything else happens. You get the chance to dial the City, take it and get out of here – that’s an order.”

_“Yes, sir. What about the doc? What do I tell Olsen and Emmagan?”_

“We still need a doctor here, but I’d prefer if we’d shot all the Wraith  _before_  surgery’s due.”

_“Understood, sir. Sanchez out.”_

Then Sheppard pockets the receiver. Fully prepared and armed he turns to the Runner and his Anima, and grins: “Let’s hunt some Wraith.”

 


	8. revolution, part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“don’t you see that all that will come from this is death and ruin? we’ve woken the Wraith and now they’ll churn Sateda into dust.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**viii.**   **  
**

# revolution

**part three**

_“don’t you see that all that will come from this is death and ruin?  
we’ve woken the Wraith and now they’ll churn Sateda into dust.”_

* * *

**The Capitol · Sateda · Pegasus**  
**Year 602 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 1998 (Terran time)**

* * *

_They will be here._

_They are coming._

Strike Team Eight returns with new reports: the enemy base they have been watching for the past two weeks is gone. It rose with the noise of thunder to the skies and disappeared: a Mothership.

It is headed right for them.

And once they come, there will be nowhere to go.

* * *

> _“People of Sateda: our nation is under attack. The Enemy has come to our planet, seeking to destroy._   _But I am giving you a promise: the Enemy will not get away with this._
> 
> _Sateda will not bow to invaders. This will not be one of the Great Cullings of the past. This will be a Revolution, and we will fight for our freedom and our children’s freedom until the Wraith are all dead! Until they are gone forever! This I promise you, proud People of Sateda, as your Chieftain; we will have freedom and we will have peace. Do now what is most courageous, and aid with the fighting in any way you can. The war effort will come at a costly price, but one we shall bear with honor for one day, soon, soon we will be free._
> 
> _Sateda will not bow to invaders! The time has come for us to put our bravery on the line and defend our nation, our planet, and all that we have fought for since the Last Culling two centuries ago. For six hundred years, Sateda has been united as_ **one** _people,_ **one** _kindred, and we must stay united to defeat this foe. And we will defeat it! We will defeat it! We must not stand down; we must never stand down! The courage of our people, the strength of our opposition to the Enemy, will lead us to victory and freedom._
> 
> _Sateda will not bow to invaders! People of Sateda, I urge you now to rise, as one, and_ **fight** _!”_  
> 
> Chieftain Tyrell  
>  (Public Emergency Broadcast)

* * *

There are stories among other worlds, allies they once have had; people who rose, who built weapons of great might. Some who attempted to build ships of their own. They rose, rose, rose and fought for the taste of freedom;

and then the sky caught up with them.

_They will destroy us all._

* * *

Evacuation plans are thought of, but impossible to execute. Nine million people cannot be taken through the Ring to a new place, to start afresh, in a heartbeat, in a day, a week – and they do not know how much time they have. Days? Moonturns? Shelters are begun to be built; there are old bunkers, from the Last Culling two centuries ago, and now they are rapidly filled with people from outlying villagers, people coming by steamship across the waters, clamoring into the Capitol. Food is stored, and weapons loaded, and bullets counted;

The government debates; and the Chieftain holds grand speeches, _Be calm, People of Sateda; we will survive. Do not panic_  –

They do not have moonturns, or weeks.

They have days.

* * *

It begins as thunder without rain: the skies darkening, and the sentries have been waiting on edge for hours and hours, guns at the ready. When the Ancestral Ring activates, they begin to fire without order, and the first Screamer Ship wrestles through the air and crashes into a building of the Center, wildly, but the second and the third get through. Pierce their defenses and crosses the landscape.

The first village is plundered that day.

A village of ordinary people, of farmers and merchants and teachers and children, their daily lives often untouched and unbothered by the smearing politics of the Capitol, now being violently destroyed.

The public receivers are crying with outrage and panic:  _what should we do?  how can we possibly be strong enough to defeat this foe?_

And the Chieftain retreats with her closest people to the Communications Tower and gives sweet assurances, as the troops are gathered in the streets, amassing in the thousands, both trained warriors and volunteers;

* * *

There is a weak promise given. Ronon seizes it. Task Master Kell has power and resources at his disposal in this chaos, and he speaks to the closest of his troops before they move out: _I can take your loves ones, your families, to another place through the Ring. Someplace safe, until the war is over._

When Ronon rushes into the Capitol’s Hospital, his blood is burning. Why is she still here? Why hasn’t his sister sought safety? Why is she still caring for the dead and dying? The city is under bombardment. She should have been at the Ring two days ago.

“Task Master Kell –”

“He is a war-mongrel,” Renara retorts sharply. Angrily. The crisp whites and blues of her Medical Staff Uniform are stained with blood. Ronon should feel bad about it, he knows, but can’t – he’d barged inside the hospital, dragged her from a patient’s bed – there is no time, no time. Why is she still here? Why hasn’t she taken a transport to the Center where the Ring is waiting? “He thrives off the public panic. Don’t you see, Ronon? I know he is a hero to you, but he and Tyrell’s regime is what has driven us to this!”

“You shouldn’t speak of such things. If Security overhears –”

 _If Security overhears._ Like they would. They are too busy. They stopped trying to quench the riots in the streets when the next wave of Wraith came, the Mothership hovering in the sky;

“Then they’ll arrest me for rioting; so be it! I’d rather rot in a cell knowing I spoke for the right things than did  **nothing.**  There has to be justice somewhere. Ronon, you are my brother and I love you, but I cannot understand you sometimes. Don’t you see that all that will come from this is death and ruin? We’ve woken the Wraith and now they’ll churn Sateda into dust.”

He silences, then. Deflates. The passion in her eyes of a fire of despair, of weary hopes ground into nothing. He looks at her hands – gloved; she was assisting a medical with surgery. He broke a dozen protocols to get to her. And, oh, he should be ashamed; she is here saving lives, while he is out there doing the same, trying to do the same. He is failing miserably and could never bring himself to tell her. About the full truth of things. He wanted her to stay untainted by the war, free from it. She hasn’t seen the Wraith for real and he likes to think it’s thanks to him, his Team, and others in the Forces. But that is only a lie. It was a matter of time, no more.

The words, waiting to be spoken, never are uttered aloud. Kell has offered refuge;  _a hundred, a thousand civilians are allowed through the Ring and we will find a future on another world. Safety. Temporarily. We will free Sateda._  But now he sees her, and the blood on her hands, and hears the screaming wailing crying of the dying of the hospital. The children and the elderly and men and women all alike. All as helpless. Thinks of the millions outside. The cities and the villages and the blossoming fields, and he wants to break down and weep;

“I’m trying to save us, Ren.”

It is all he has ever tried to do.

“If that makes you feel better,” she says, and strides past him, refusing to meet his gaze. 

It is the last time he hears her voice.

* * *

> _“People of Sateda. At this moment, thousands of our bravest are meeting the Enemy on our soil. I am speaking to you now in our darkest hour. The Enemy ships have darkened our skies and hope may seem bleak, but I know that in our hearts, our Satedan warrior spirit remains true, and as long as it remains, so does hope._
> 
> _The United Nation of Sateda will not fail today. It will not fail, as long as we remain true. It will not fail!  Together, we will defeat the Enemy. We will not let them plunder and destroy any longer – we will make our freedom._
> 
> _This is the Revolution! People of Sateda, are you with me?_
> 
> _Will you join the fight?”_  
> 
> Chieftain Tyrell speaking to her people  
>  before leading troops into the Main Square of the Capitol 

* * *

The Capitol is burning.

The streets are swarming with people and Animae: screaming, bloodied, homeless. Their houses are crumbling all around them. The Wraith are in the sky: they are on the ground: they are everywhere.

No one can escape.

They know it, now. No one can escape.

All Strike Teams have been deployed like infantry, armed like the thousands of men and women who helplessly relentlessly stand their ground. Their arms, once so powerful and a source of great pride, are small and useless at most against the advancing fleet. The Wraith are landing in the hundreds, the thousands, and their hunger reeks and Ronon cannot see anymore, cannot see – 

* * *

_The Main Hospital disappeared three hours ago._

_Smoke curling and the bombing struck from the air – the raids have been going on all through the night; the blackouts do not matter; now the sun is rising, unaware of the destruction;_

* * *

He doesn’t know where Jun or Kell are, or any other superiors. Orders are thin and frantic and rare and  **meaningless**  – no one is giving the orders anymore. Somehow, in a broken alleyway, he finds Marika and Senchí and Oelia from the 13th Battalion, and a few others whose voices he can still discern. They are trying to hold of the armories set up in the lower levels of the city. A last hope.

For all Satedans know to stand their ground and fight; all Satedans know their honor depends on it. All Satedans will face death bravely –

* * *

the screaming children and the dying in the Hospital,

and the last words he ever shared with Ren were angry and heated and full of tears that never fell

and he wonders if the pain was brief or everlasting; he can imagine her voice, screaming for her Anima, for Meereen pleadingly as the world around them turned to dust – they were right they were  **right**  

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry –_

* * *

The Capitol is burning.

And Ronon’s throat is hoarse as he shouts, tells people what to do even if he doesn’t know, doesn’t know but Marika is gone – taken – and he’s the highest ranking officer remaining. Senchí is bent across the pavement wailing; he can’t feel his Anima anymore can’t feel her _can’t feel_ and then he exhales, and goes still, and Ronon rushes past the body, one of the hundreds of thousands and cannot pray cannot whisper cannot  **breathe**  –

Melena is covered with blood, fur amess, a dozen dead Wraith forming a circle around her and Ronon doesn’t feel swelling pride. 

Doesn’t feel anything at all, but for the chaotic rise of his pulse, the rush of adrenaline giving way to stark and utter panic. They are animals; they are beasts, being hunted;

this is the slaughterhouse.

* * *

When the light sweeps across the street, Ronon sees it: and it is the first thing he sees clearly for days or perhaps years; and he walks toward it. It will take up to a Screamer Ship and aboard a Mothership, and he will not fear it, he will face it proudly as his mother did, as they all have ever tried to do –

He will die a Satedan death. 


	9. a taste of stars, part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _he doesn’t behave like a hunter who reads tracks - he seems to be looking at the sky more than at the ground._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**ix.**

# a taste of stars

**part three**

_he doesn’t behave like a hunter who reads tracks –  
he seems to be looking at the sky more than at the ground._

* * *

**Uninhabited planet: The Wilderness · Terran designation M31-927 · Pegasus**  
**Year 610 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 2005 (Terran time)**  

* * *

 _Let’s_ _hunt some Wraith_ , the man had said, so refreshingly: let us be the Hunters, not the Hunted.

The Wraith know their location, the tracking device giving them away and the man could choose to run: to flee: to cut him down, now that his hands are no longer bound and his weapons returned. He could choose a coward’s way out, and part of Ronon expects him to. After all, they are but men, and there is a core of weakness to almost everybody, a point where people snap and turn.

But Major Sheppard doesn’t back away or aim at him. Instead he says:  _Let’s hunt some Wraith_ , almost like an arrogant madman who has nothing to lose, and who knows how to fight his fears away. He says it like a true Satedan would, and Ronon almost sees Task Hand Jun in him, almost sees his mother before the last time she headed out of home to die;

* * *

They exit the compound together. Too cramped, too obvious a battleground. The woodlands will be better.

The echo of the two Screamer Ships are streaming across the skies in large zigzagging patterns. They’re searching, but the gnarled canopy offers good cover and night is nearly upon them now: the horizon is being painted in brilliant shades of glowing pink and red like blood. Ronon has been here for nearly a day by the measurements of this world’s sun; he slept long and well, and he is displeased that what could have been a good hiding place will not be safe for use for several years to come; perhaps never. The Wraith may destroy the Ancestral outpost out of spite.

“You pulled back your people,” Ronon remarks, quietly, as they leave the Ancestral compound behind them. It is obvious, very fast, that he is a better hunter at ground-level than the Major, who doesn’t question it. Professional efficiency: the judging of each other’s position and strengths and weaknesses, the rapid decisions made. Ronon has no idea what kind of a rank Major is, how important, but neither does the man about Specialist _._  They are still strangers. “Why?”

“The less the Wraith see of us, the better,” Major Sheppard says, voice clipped, the terse detachment of a soldier entering the field and forcibly leaving his worries behind. “They’re supposed to think we’re all dead. Would rather have them think rumor of our demise wasn’t exaggerated.”

That makes no sense – unless their world was Culled into oblivion too, as revenge, and from the wreckage a few souls managed to pull themselves free, untangle their comrades, salvage as much as they could. And sudden heat curls in Ronon’s belly, this knowledge that Sateda was not the first or the last great proud nation to be felled like one chops wood to fuel fire.

(when will be the last?

when will it  _end_?)

* * *

Two Screamer Ships. Ronon isn’t certain if there’s a limit to how many they can sweep up into their storage, nor how many they could now be placing on the planet surface to hunt on foot. A dozen Wraith, perhaps. Most will be drones: masked, armored, but slow, unable to think, mindless. The most dangerous ones are those unmasked. 

Ronon peers between the trees, their long shadows able conceal threats to the untrained eye. Nothing yet. No doubt at least three or four Wraith will be by the Ancestral Ring, by now, guarding it; that would keep Sheppard’s man – Sanchez? – busy. Hopefully even if the man doesn’t survive he’ll take out one or two of the foul creatures.

The thought, brief, might seem callous, Ronon thinks the Major might understand such a sentiment, belonging to a clan of warriors. Different from true Satedans, yet there might be something: a spirit that is similar. 

Every Satedan knows about sacrifice. 

They’re jogging briskly, the pace steady; once in a while, Ronon stops to examine a mark on the ground, seeking signs, and the Major doesn’t question it, but takes up point alongside Melena – saying, the first time,  _Got your six,_  in a tone suggesting it’s the type of speech shared among his soldiers, to be understood. Even if he doesn’t know the references, the actions make clear what it means.

And the second time they stop, the Major does an odd thing. Closes his eyes in concentration – for a moment, Ronon wonders if he’s been struck by a sudden thundering headache, or shot from afar, but scanning the surroundings there’s nothing, no ambush – and in a couple of seconds, Sheppard inhales sharply and opens his eyes again. Catching Ronon’s questioning gaze, he inclines his head.

“Just checking something.”

 _His Anima_  – Ronon realizes, sharply, he’d said  _They’re around_  and Ronon had assumed it was a small thing, hiding in a pocket, or possibly so small it had managed to escape earlier, hung back while its human was tied up and their possessions rifled through. But there had not been and are no screams of pain, the Major isn’t shuddering –

* * *

_they’d forced Melena away while they put the tracking device in him. Only for minutes, to test his strength,_

_to see if he would die faster:_  

_he had wanted to die_

_to tear them all apart_

_he had screamed;_

_useless names_

* * *

“We’ve got six Wraith that way,” Sheppard says, nodding in the direction of the sun. “Pretty close. Couple of hundred yards.” Again, flickering eyelids: as if he’s searching – “Guess they know we’re here, ‘cause they’re headed our way.”

 _How can he be so certain?_  Melena stares in distrust, flaring and sharp. He doesn’t behave like a hunter who reads tracks – he seems to be looking at the sky more than at the ground.

“How do you know?”

“My Dæmon told me.” Dæmon – the word means Anima, Ronon is certain, instinctively, a suggestion by the translation matrix of the Ring; he both hears and sees it, both words at once.

“And where are they?” To be able to be so far apart that the Anima is observing something so far off … that is unheard of. Occurs only in old stories, remnants in the Ode of ancient myths from other worlds, but Ronon has never considered such things to be  _real._  Everyone knows a human and their Anima must remain close forever, or their Bond will shatter, leaving two empty ghosting shells and death will claim them. Such is the way of things. Everyone  _knows._

The man is not just a stranger, anymore. He’s an enigma and, truthfully, not a little frightening if what he says is true.

And he must see it on Ronon’s face, the mistrust, the edge of anger,  _this is the monster from the fairytales_ ; Ronon’s hand moves, unasked, particle magnum beginning to be raised. The Major doesn’t flinch or even look surprised or disappointed, just resigned; tired, in a way, tired as if this is nowhere near the first time he’s been faced with this kind of reaction, this reality. 

“Look, just … once they get here, please don’t shoot, will you? Since we’re starting to get along so well and all.”

“ _What_  are they?” For a moment Ronon is not certain he  _wants_  to know what the Shape of this Anima might be, this Anima that can creep away from its human and hide –

Sheppard doesn’t have the chance answer. 

* * *

Specks of white. Wraith, between the trees. Six of them. Bolts of blue issue from their weapons – they are not creatures of patient finesse; they are moving forward, relying on their technology, fixed on the tracking device, not needing to read tracks to find their prey. Time to stop arguing and start acting. Ronon crouches behind a gnarled root and returns fire rapidly, and Sheppard follows suit. His weapon might look sleek and puny, but the loud bullets tear across the air, damaging a couple of trees in the process, and there are sparks of shimmering metal as one of the armored drones is hit. Sheppard empties one clip, reloading in a single smooth action, having done this countless times before.

Melena is growling and longing to leap onto their enemies and slit their throats, but they’re not yet close enough; she is pressed close to the ground to make less of a target. Claws extended, teeth bared.  _Let them come a little closer._

The Major is moving, ducks behind a fallen tree. Closes his eyes again, like he did before, exhaling slowly and it might just be the rush of battle, blood singing victory and destroy – the sense of time is always warped in this heat.

But Ronon sees the Major relax in a way that isn’t entirely human, and time might be stilling entirely. The Major appears to be completely ignoring the assault from the stunners, the breaking of the woods, and the nearing Wraith. Just breathing –

Movement: it’s faint, and from above, and not the wind. Ronon first things the shadow might be a Screamer Ship from afar, but it’s far too silent.

It crashes downward in a dark spur. A shadow, no, it is a creature, living, and it appears from the sky and dives onto the four remaining Wraith. There is no shrill shriek, just the utter silence, and two of the Wraith aim upward in disorientation, missing every time. The creature – a bird, dark like a night without stars, no markings on it; the wingspan is much bigger than anticipated, the length of arms outstretched;

It lands right atop one of an unmasked Wraith and moves without hesitation, like a warrior working on instinct but yet clever enough to think, and it tears the Wraith’s eyes out, hacking at its face, rivulets of blood spurting onto the ground and tainting the creature’s feathers. The blood doesn’t seem to bother it at all. It doesn’t slow.

And Sheppard quirks a grin, and opens his eyes, lurching forward; and the Wraith are confused now, their leader falling onto the ground bonelessly – not dead but screaming in pain unlike Wraith usually ever scream. They do not know pain or fear of death. The winged creature twists away, almost as if dancing, tauntingly; and Ronon hits another Wraith, and another, with red blasts from his particle magnum. The Major fires, too, bringing down a third and the last remaining drone is entirely focused on the bird, now, trying and failing to bring it down. So distracted the Wraith is that Sheppard and Ronon can break cover and rush forward, unhindered and unseen, and Melena gladly finishes it.

Then all that remains is the badly wounded leader, clawing at its ruined face as it slowly, twistedly heals. Sheppard wordlessly steps forward and puts a bullet at the center of its forehead.

The Wraith stills.

* * *

Silence descends. Nothing but their breathing and the songs of the forest: but any wildlife with sense will have fled, by now, from the noise of fire. The bird – of a shape which Ronon cannot name: there were similar ones on Sateda, scavenging the battlefields of old; haunting ruins and corpses alike, watching from afar. It glides down and settles on Sheppard’s shoulder as the man straightens up, and suddenly, suddenly it’s so clear –

 _By the Moons._  But, how? how? how is this possible? This is a thing belonging in the stories of the Ode. The whispers of the old times before the Unification, before the Great Wars – before, when the Ancestors still were alive and not just the thing of prayer, then there had been witnesses. Ronon knows. He read the texts in the Library, poured over them with hopes of grandeur, swallowed the tales whole. He knows the lyrics of the ancient songs. They’d said the Ancestors had great powers, they built their Cities and Ships and Machines, and they had the power to Ascend to a level of existence that mortals couldn’t –  _they’re not human; they have Animae of Shapes stranger than anything seen before or since; some say they had Animae the Shape of winged beasts_  –

Ronon might be forgetting how to breathe.

Sheppard is tense, and only sees the particle magnum raised in his direction. “Hey, don’t shoot, will you? We’re getting along so well.”

When Ronon slowly, haltingly, lowers the gun –  _By the Moons. Is this an Ancestor? But, how, how,_ **how** _…_ _?_  –Sheppard visibly relaxes. The bird on his shoulder is looking at the Runner with eyes that are definitely intelligent, and Melena has drawn back to her human’s side, sharing his startled fears.

It looks at them for a moment, before ruffling its feathers in a way that might be described as annoyed, and stretches one wing out to clean off the blood. Sheppard’s hand rises, settles carefully, comfortingly. And it must be an Anima, there’s nothing else it  _can_  be;

“How?”

“Ah. This is my Dæmon.”

“Her shape …”

“A Raven,” Sheppard supplies; the Ring is translating, Ronon can feel, a word that did not exist as such on Sateda. Something similar: the birds were common in the old wars, ghosting the battlefields and feasting on the carrion. “Guess they’re pretty rare this side of the Pegasus galaxy.”

He has a different name for the Known Stars.

_Is he one of the Ancestors?_

_I don’t know,_  Melena whispers, hushed, even though there is no way someone else could be privy to a Bond;  _He looks so … scrawny._

And Ronon cannot let the question go. “Who are you?”

Sheppard exhales. “Major John Sheppard, U.S. Air Force. Like I told you. Maybe this looks strange, but I’m just human. Just like you, all right?” The Anima – the Raven – shifts its head to look at its human as if berating or disagreeing on something, of all things, and there is an unknown conversation that the Satedan cannot hear. Then he shifts his weight from foot to foot, awkwardly: “We still got two Darts out there, and more Wraith could be coming. We should get moving.”

The Ancestors are dead. Legends. Myth. Thing of stories and nothing else, little else; to be prayed to and blessed by and hoping for, but Ronon doesn’t think he has ever believed. Not after his mother died; not after Sateda burned. For how could the Ancestors be real and alive and let this torment go on, centuries passing without intervening? How was he meant to believe?

The man standing before him is far too real.

The Major – is it an Ancestral word? does it mean something Ronon cannot discern? – frowns when Ronon remains frozen, Melena staring back in tense disbelief; “Look, I’m human. The guy you stunned and tied up a couple of hours ago.”

“You’re … not an Ancestor?”

“Ancestor…? Oh, you mean an Ancient?” Sheppard grins wryly. Shakes his head, as if bemused. As if the words trigger an insider joke to which Ronon and Melena aren’t privy. “Not really.”

* * *

There are still Wraith out there, their two Screamer Ships, ever–seeking. This planet is not safe until Ronon has left it, he knows. Not until the tracker stops transmitting.

_“Major Sheppard, this is Sanchez.”_

He presses the button on the receiver. “Go on.”

_“I’m still by the Gate; there are three Suckers guarding it. One of the Darts just went through to wherever they dialed, and the Gate shut down. Over.”_

“All right, we’re coming to you. Lay low. Sheppard out.” Shutting down the transmission, Sheppard looks at the Runner, and says, “The offer still stands. To get that tracking device out, I mean. This –” a sweep of hand, general, open: gestures at the broken bodies of the Wraith by their feet; “– is one hell of a way to live.”

An Ancestor or not – Ronon wants to, wants so badly believe again; believe like he did in Kell and Jun and Tyrell and Ren, oh he wishes there was something he could have said to her the seconds before she died –  _(I’m sorry)_  –

Change.  _Freedom._

All words are bitter now:  _freedom,_  the Chieftain had promised so boldly, Sateda will not fall;  _freedom,_  was the promise, and now Sheppard is stretching out a hand and offering the same;

“Your people fight the Wraith?” he asks. For freedom? for hope?

(No one fights the Wraith for glory.  
Glory doesn’t make heroes.)

“That’s what we try to do,” Sheppard answers. A glaze of frost in his expression: the echoes of a raging terror. And Ronon wonders what he has seen, and if he has also seen cities burning.

* * *

  _there has to be justice somewhere._  
_don’t you see that all that will come from this is death and ruin?_

_i’m trying to save us_

_i’m trying to_

_i'm trying_

 

And Ronon makes his choice.


	10. peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _these people want to trust him. and he wants to trust **them**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-05-01) Apologizes about the delay. It's just been a lot lately, and I just ran out of steam when it comes to fanfic writing. But I plan on continuing this verse, definitely! I think I just needed a breather to be able to focus on my studies and other irl things.  
> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**x.**

# peace

_these people want to trust him. and he wants to trust **them**._

* * *

**Uninhabited planet: The Wilderness · Terran designation M31-927 · Pegasus**  
**Year 610 after the Great Unification of Sateda · 2005 (Terran time)**

* * *

They have to keep moving.

The Wraith are still here, seeking, hunting, relentlessly. The Dart which left just minutes ago could be on the way to get back–up; a Cruiser; a Hive – with lifesigns detected on the planet, however few, the Wraith may think there are easy pickings here, not just the Runner, alone in the dark.

There’s a stream running south, into a valley and a calm creek and this world might have been stunningly beautiful once, consisting not just of abandoned muddy forests where so few things live. When the Ancestors came here and built their facility, whatever it was for, they might have brought other things with them too. Once people might have lived here. If there were cities, they have been razed to the ground and overgrown centuries and centuries ago.

Ronon and Melena take the lead, and somehow, despite this nagging feeling of  _this stranger claims otherwise but might be Ancestral,_ he feels himself relaxing in John Sheppard’s presence as if they are a Strike Team, dependent on each other – for now – for survival. For this hunt, this hunt they cover each other’s backs. And Sheppard is alternatingly sweeping the perimeter with his gaze as they move forward, and scanning the sky with eyes that might not be seeing what Ronon sees at all; he let his Anima fly ahead – and Ronon is not used to that; might never be used to it: an Anima with wings, the thing of legends.

(Sheppard insists he is only human.)

The stream is an obvious thing to follow, which is why they don’t. Oh, for a while: laying false trails – and they don’t talk more than necessary. They’re taking the long way round, circling back to the Ancestral Ring where on of Sheppard’s people is waiting, patiently. Once or twice Sheppard pauses, relays brief summaries – Wraith on the move that way; the Stargate still inactive – repeating what his Anima is seeing.

Eventually they reach the Ring, and true enough it is under guard, and a man, wearing a uniform matching Sheppard’s, is crouching behind a jutting rock, the underbrush thick and heavy. He is very still, but Ronon’s eyes are sharper than most, and as they come nearer they drop on all fours and crawl to the man’s side, joining his hiding place. The man – Sanchez – looks at the Satedan for a quiet while, but doesn’t remark on the dirt and blood on his face, or ask useless questions.

“They’re not moving. It’s like they know we’re somewhere around here,” the man says instead to Sheppard, who nods.

They speak softly enough not to be discovered, and Ronon lies there, just breathing, his soul heaving with tension: sooner or later the Wraith will pinpoint their location again. They need to keep moving.

Sheppard points the barrel of his weapon through the leaves and moss, aimed at the closest Wraith, less than a hundred yards away, and his finger caresses the trigger. “There’s just three of them.”

“What’s the plan, sir?”

Ronon has to admire how Sanchez doesn’t seem afraid: just, well, annoyed, as if caught up in business not his own but willing to barrel his way through it, as a soldier would. Waiting for orders – Sheppard must be a superior, then, in this alien military structure.

“We can take them out, and dial a back-up planet for the Alpha Site. Buy some time, and have a doc come there to get rid of the tracking device,” Sheppard says. “Don’t want to risk the City.”

And Ronon might still be so disbelieving, when hearing that – selfless: they could just dump him here, flee but they don’t, they’re going to help him – these people are stubborn, and trying,  _trying_ ;

Sheppard looks at him, for affirmation perhaps, and Ronon nods. Sure. If this plan doesn’t work – he can always run. Keep running. The Wraith won’t kill him at first sight; they never do; this is the game they want to keep running for years. And at the mention of a city, his guts clench: a city; how many are living there?

The Capitol burned. He doesn’t want to burn another one down.

“Let’s do this.”

* * *

They break cover; Sheppard is really good marksman, Ronon comes to realize. Not wasting bullets. There’s a mutter of _a P–90 really isn’t the best weapon for sniping_ , but the song of ammo cleaving the air and splitting open heads is extremely satisfying, and the Wraith fall one after the other. Red blasts from his particle magnum join in. In less than a minute, the clearing is emptied, and the three of them and their Animae rush forward.

Sanchez starts dialing, an address which Ronon doesn’t know and it’s not the first time he has thrown himself into the unknown, no probe sent beforehand, unaware if he will be met by snow or desert storms or the chill of spring just beginning to bloom;

* * *

The atmosphere is replaced. The gloomy grey overcast forms the endless clarity of night: a sheet of black and dark blue, a stretch of the Known Stars going from left to right. Stars, blinking, high above, numerously. A glimpse of a gas giant, green and rather close, near the horizon. This might be a moon, then. The air is warm and a bit sticky, and at a distance the noises of the jungle night rise and fall in a loop of alien cicadas singing.

As the Ring shuts down, the sound of falling water grows prominent. Sheppard is already moving to the dialing device, while Sanchez takes up point, gazing into the surrounding trees, on his guard. His back isn’t turned completely, refusing to have the Runner out of sight. Sheppard, however, doesn’t seem to exude the same qualms and suspicions. He might be courageous and stubborn and rash, turning his back to a stranger like that. It might be a show of trust, too.

They have fought Wraith together, after all.

And in the silence, Ronon finds himself relaxing, minutely, and Melena murmurs echoes of  _We can trust these people_. He’s not sure what it is, but something about them, the way they move and speak – something gives him  _hope_.

* * *

The wormhole flares into being. Sheppard pulls a foreign device out of a pocket and presses a series of buttons. A line of code, perhaps. Then he says into his reciever: “This is Sheppard – anyone reading this?”

 _“Major Sheppard, this is Major Lorne, we read you five_ - _by_ - _five. What’s the situation?”_ The voice is grim and tight, and Ronon might say edgy. Major Lorne does not sound like a happy man, though Ronon doesn’t suppose he would be either, if one of his Strike Team was taken by an unknown force and held hostage unexpectedly; they don’t know they how they have fought the Wraith together.

“We’re on the waterfall moon right now – M9F–481 – we managed to outrun the Wraith. They may still be able to track us here; hopefully it’ll take a while, but we don’t want to take chances of them finding the City. I need you to send through a medic to deal with the tracking device. Oh, and better send along some lights, because it’s nighttime here.”

 _“Dr Mallory is ready to go now,”_  says another voice. Female, firm, soft. Her way of intonation is different from that of the men Ronon so far has encountered, as if she was born on the other side of their planet. _”Besides the device to be removed, are there any injures needing to be treated?”_

“Negative on that.”

 _“That is good to hear,”_  is the answer. _”We will dial and send Dr Mallory through momentarily.”_

The eerie blue of the event horizon disappears, and they take a step back to watch it reappear as Sheppard’s people dial the planet. They had given it a designation of numbers and letters, not a solid name; similarly to how Sateda would when planning the Strike Team ops, Ronon muses. The surface destabilizes and a second later the medic steps through, along with her Anima, which is a small and furry thing, reminding Ronon of a canine, yet utterly different from anything that ever existed on Sateda. Her hair is pulled back in a strict knot, and her grey, yellow-patterned uniform seems sharply out of place on this rainforest and its hollow trees. She is, as earlier promised, alone, and has several heavy bags slung over her shoulders and in her hands.

Sheppard says into the receiver: “The doc’s come through. We’ll contact you once we’ve dealt with the tracking device.”

_“Understood. Good luck. Teyla out.”_

Then the wormhole folds in on itself and disappears for a third time. The medical – Dr Mallory – doesn’t flinch, but looks between Sheppard and Ronon slightly warily, and when she sees Melena, prowling, she looks faintly alarmed. But then her expression smooths out, and her Anima stares at the Runner and his Anima with wide, determined eyes.

Oh, the woman looks afraid, and weak enough, not a warrior – easy to subdue – but the glimpse of steel is refreshing when she dampens that fear, and says: “Hello. I’m Dr Mallory – where’s my patient?”

He cannot place the accent.

“Right here,” Sheppard says, gesturing with a free hand toward the Satedan: “Dr Mallory, meet Specialist Ronon Dex.”

He’s still holding his gun aloft, and as the woman approaches and begins to arrange her things a few yards from the Ring – putting down and opening bags; there is the glimpse of surgical instruments, and Ronon watches quietly, refusing to move, as the one named Sanchez helps setting up a couple of portable lamps – glaringly sharp artificial light blinks into existence, and it causes his pupils to sear. Sheppard lingers, on his guard, but looking relaxed, though there is a definite tension to his jaw and shoulders. The Wraith can still find them here, sooner or later, and the man is deeply aware of it.

The strange thing is, Ronon supposes, that is knows, he knows he has lost his leverage. They began to hunt the Wraith together and Sheppard is no longer a hostage held at gunpoint. He and his people outnumber the Satedan now, and they are armed, and his flying Anima has proved ferocious; yet, Ronon does not feel the rise of hot animal panic, raw and instance. Only, merely, a rise of settling calm.

These people want to trust him. And he wants to trust  **them**.

And when the medical says: “I need you to sit down and take off your coat so we can scan for the device.”, Ronon finds his limbs obeying. Tiredness threatens to overcome him in a great wave. She pulls some kind of device from her bags, and hands it to Sheppard. “Dr Zelenka has recalibrated it,” she says. The moment Sheppard touches it the screen begins to glow, while in her hands it had remained unmoving.

They sweep it over his bare shoulder and upper back – never touching – and there is a bleeping noise; Melena, guardingly, behind them  _(If they try anything I’ll kill them)_ catches a glimpse of it and lets him know – an image of his spinal column, and the broken tendrils of the Wraith device stretching through his flesh. The medical considers it for a moment as Sheppard shows the image – “Looks like it’s attached to his spine. Sir, I am going to need you to lie down.”

In this position he can still break away. Run. But lying down, prone and vulnerable – there’s no escape then, no escape –

He has run for so long that he doesn’t know if he can do that.

The medical persists: “I need to sedate you.”

“No. No sedation.”

“I am going to be cutting into your back extremely close to your spine. It  _will_  hurt.”

(Are all of Sheppard’s people this determined?

This kind of courage is new. He hasn’t seen it since Sateda. It’s more startling than it should have been.)

But Sheppard says: “All right. Let’s do it like this.”

The woman does not look pleased, but complies, eventually. Oh, they  _are_  stubborn. It’s almost admirable. But they don’t have time to argue. The Wraith could be here any minute. The medical knows this too, and snaps on a pair of plastic gloves, gesturing for Sheppard to assist – holding out a tray of surgical instruments, she takes one, and Ronon exhales, inhales, closes his eyes;

* * *

It is not the first time an incision has been made, and it is not terribly deep, but the Wraith placed the device there for a reason. There, it is difficult to remove without causing permanent spinal injury. Even Ronon knows this; it is a fire, burning slowly; like the fires that enveloped the Hospital and the Grand Museum and the schools and the Library …

 _would Renara have held him as he wept through the lonely nights_  
_and would she have raised the knife as he begged to finish it, to_ **finish** _it –_  

* * *

He doesn’t remember falling unconscious.

When he comes to, there is no well of pain to claw his way out of. There is no thirst, and only a hunt of hunger. A scratchy sensation to his back, right where they had cut through the skin – nothing more.

The Ring is active and casts a blue sheen on the woods and the ground, and Ronon realizes he’s lying on the soft grass, sideways. His shoulder is wrapped in clean white bandage. All of his possessions are still here: gun, sword, coat. No one has scoured his pack for hidden knives. Nothing stolen.

(someday someday someday he might learn to grow so trustful that being robbed will be surprising, not the other way around)

He stretches carefully, and then he notices – and springs up, and Melena too, dazed with the lingering ache of unconsciousness – grabs his particle magnum, aims, finger on the trigger;

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t shoot,” says Sheppard, not the white ghost of a Wraith. He is armed, like before, but not holding his weapon up. Just waiting. There is no sign of the medical or her equipment, or the one called Sanchez. What is Sheppard doing here?

Night is still hanging over them. No signs of the Wraith yet.

“We got the tracking device out,” Sheppard says then. “We destroyed it, and to be extra certain I sent the leftovers to P01-906; it’s a planetary Gate, orbits an uninhabited world. Vacuum will take care of what remains of it.”

“Just in case?” Ronon rasps, possibly a question, and there’s the hint of a smile;

“Yeah. Just in case.”

Ronon slowly lowers his gun. Wondering. “Why are you still here?” Why haven’t they dumped him and moved on (the safest thing to do) –

But the tracking device is gone. gone. destroyed. they cannot track him anymore. cannot hunt him. the hunt is over – he is no Runner anymore. He is … free?

 _Freedom_.

(what he so wished for, dreamed for, prayed for: the years and the moonturns, restless, unending)

 _Freedom_.

It’s a foreign concept and he’s not sure how to handle it.

“Well, I made an offer, on that planet,” Sheppard says. Gently. The Raven on his shoulder flexes its wings, impatiently. “And I guess I’m sort a extending it right now to do more than get that device out. You need someplace to crash.”

 _Freedom_.

And Ronon looks at his hands, these hands which have killed countless Wraith, and for a moment he can smell the smoke of the burning buildings, of Sateda crumbling; what if there are others? What if there are ghosts, wandering the skies? Maybe … maybe Sheppard’s people could help him find them.

And he looks up, meets Sheppard’s unwavering gaze. Breathes.

 _Freedom_.

“My homeworld – could your people take me back there?”

“We can try,” Sheppard says. “So what do you say? We’ve got shelter, and food … lots of nice things.”

Trying is good enough.

 _He doesn’t seem to be a liar,_  Melena murmurs.

And Ronon lowers the weapon. Holsters it. Pulls on his coat, and turns toward the Ancestral Ring – Stargate, Sheppard keeps calling it. A gateway to the stars. It fits. A gateway to the universe. To freedom. He’s run and run and run – now, now he can stop, he can stop and breathe and just exist, merely exist – maybe he can do that. Maybe he can learn to do that.

“What’s your world called?” he asks, before they step through. Looks at the empty blue: there is never any warning of what lies beyond. Unknown factors. A city … they had mentioned a city. “Your city?”

And Sheppard smiles proudly. “Atlantis.”

 _Atlantis. Like the names of the Ancestral Cities: those in the stories, in the Ode, the songs sung for generations while we prayed for the Ancestors to return and free us all_  –

And the man and his Raven step through the event horizon, waiting for Ronon and Melena to follow.

They do.


	11. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**xi.**

# elegeia satedum

**epilogue**

* * *

> **_Elegeia Satedum_ **
> 
> _as written in High Satedan, in the year 611 since the Great Unification of Sateda, by Ronon Dex, son of Garen and Mataei Dex, Specialist of the Sateda Planetary Forces, Fifth Division; composed in the City of Atlantis, upon the Turn of the Satedan New Year (traditionally celebrated when the Second and the Third moons are aligned, the Second casting the Third in darkness.)_
> 
> _(ambiguous translation)_
> 
> o, here now we die  
>     the victorious and the unafraid  
>  _en lume adventus Satedum sau;_  
>     they, whoever have claimed comforts exist,  
>                     are the liars who wished for the stars to come alive and dance
> 
> o, here will we die  
>     stillness; our warrior spirit becalmed  
>  _lume dedactavum Satedum sau;  
>  _    the promises of undug graves persist     
>                     who will follow our ancestors1 through the  _astria porta_?
> 
> o, we come to die  
>     buried beneath the soil, the shield, the blade  
>  _nou lume deserde Satedum sau;_  
>     our names echo until the stars do desist  
>                     let us then leave for places without any senses of time
> 
> o, here shall we lie  
>     together, as one, entombed and embalmed  
>     who will remember the Three2 blazing the night  
>     if we are not to linger and recall?  
>              _o nou reliquiae animae animu Satedum sau_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ancient/Latin translations :**  
>  **en lume adventus Satedum sau** in [the] approaching light of [the] Satedan sun  
>  **lume dedactavum Satedum sau** [the] light of [the] Satedan sun has been taken away  
>  **nou lume deserde Satedum sau** we seek [the] light of [the] Satedan sun  
>  **nou reliquiae animae animu Satedum sau** we [who are the] surviving souls must become [the] Satedan sun  
>  **Astria** Porta Stargate (Ancestral Ring)  
>  **adventus** approaching, coming  
>  **Anima** Daemon lit. “spirit” or “soul”, pl **Animae**  
>  **anumu** [we] will be, from **ani** _to be_  
>  **dedactavum** [to have been] taken away  
>  **deserdi** to desire, to seek, to wish  
>  **elegeia** elegy _(Note: I have a couple of handcanons regarding Satedan poetry, and this is how I envisioned a quite free Satedan_ elegeia _to look like: there's a sort of rhyming pattern, but the syllables are also important, following a system of 5-10-10-10-15 syllables per stanza, and there are four stanzas of five lines each. I've tried to stick to that in the poem.)_  
>  **lume** light  
>  **nou** we  
>  **reliquiae** survivors; the relics left behind  
>  **Satedum** of/from/by Sateda; a Satedan person  
>  **sau** sun
> 
>    
> (1) "Ancestors" can refer to both the Ancients and/or the human ancestors in Satedan history and myth.  
> (2) The Three Moons of Sateda, each named after a warrior in Satedan myth and/or history.


End file.
